


A Mother Cannot Be No One

by MannixMind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Badass Arya, F/M, First Time, Jealousy, Pregnancy, Romance, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:23:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 41,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4142793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MannixMind/pseuds/MannixMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two and a half years into her time at the House of White and Black No One has all but forgotten the life that once belonged to Arya Stark.  Remembering it had been too painful... too painful after the closest member of her Wolf Pack had been murdered by his own men, left to die as he bled out in the Snow.  But one day she sees someone in Braavos, someone who can, for a time, make her remember the happiness that Arya Stark had felt between the pain.  But pleasure has consequences, and when they come No One realizes that other things might draw her back to the realm she once called home than the pack she lost.  What she doesn't realize, is what is there, waiting for her return.  </p>
<p>(Bad at Summaries - but just work with me, its going somewhere interesting I promise)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! So - I just posted this first chapter up last night and I got a ton of very interesting feedback so before anyone either (a) gets wedded to what they think will happen and ends up hating me or (b) gives up on the story after the first chapter because they're sure they already know the direction this is going in I just have to say this:
> 
> (1) There are three relationships tagged for this story - ALL of them will be a thing. Not just an in the past thing, not just an alluded to thing, an actual for real for serious thing. 
> 
> So that leads straight into the second thing...
> 
> (2) It is literally impossible for me to make all strong shippers happy by the end of this. And even people who don't ship that hard, because things are going to get uncomfortable. And probably violent.
> 
> But I think that's kind of fun, and I'm certainly enjoying writing a quagmire, so I hope you guys stick with it!

Arya

 

She never regretted it, not even the night she was cast out of the house of Black and White.  
  
It had been two years since her last relapse when it happened. After she'd killed Ser Merryn she'd spent six months blind - forgetting the features of her own face after two months in the balckness. The only times after that when she got sparks of her old life was when word reached her of Jon Snow's demise.

Her unseeing eyes had shed gallons of tears at the news, seeing flashes of her beloved brother in the darkness that enveloped her. She'd known she was really going insane then - feeling as if she was seeing him through the eyes of Nymeria, only he was Ghost - or Ghost was both of them? It wasn't clear.  When her eyes had been given back to her she understood it for what it was - the delusions of a lost soul, wondering in the dark clinging to something anything that could be used to construct a sense of self.  
  
But No One had no sense of self. And so she'd let the memories and imagined images fade.  It was easier that way, without the constant pain.  And so as she lost the grey-eyed boy, Arya Stark left her too, receding into the recesses of her mind and fading away, until her memories were nothing more than a point of reference, contextualizing the rare Westerosi word that No One heard on the lips of those who visited the docks of Braavos.  
  
But then, fifteen months after her eyes had been restored to her, over a year and a half after she had begun to truly imagine herself as No One, she saw the boy.  
  
Except he was not a boy, not really - he'd been almost a man on the day she had met him. What he was was a bull, big and stubborn as ever, but with something so matter of fact about him that No One couldn't help but remember him and smile. Arya Stark had loved this bull once.  
  
So No One set out to see what she could learn about the Bull. For the first time since Ser Merryn she took a face without asking. She became a tavern girl, with a friendly face and soft brown eyes, though she left her own dark locks cascading down her back. He could hardly recognize those, after all.  
  
When she asked the Bull how he'd come to be in Braavos he'd gruffly mumbled "I rowed" and turned back to his ale, making it clear he had no interest in speaking with the girl. She thought that was funny - and so she'd tried again the night after, and the night after that - slowly coaxing details out of the Bull until he began to open up to her a bit, until his blue eyes crinkled in greeting when he saw her approach. He told her he was only there for a short time, that he was on his way to Mereen – on his way to pledge his service to the one they called the Mother of Dragons. He said he’d heard rumors that she was drawing in all the people whom the Lannisters had wronged. He hoped to find a girl there, a girl whom he’d wronged, a girl who could have been his family.

No One heard, and No One remembered, but still she didn’t let the Bull be. She was playing a dangerous game with this friend of Arya Stark’s, and she knew it might cost her dearly, but she decided she didn’t care. It might be worth it to live in darkness again for a time if it meant she got to see the light in the Bull’s eyes.

On his last night in Braavos she’d taken him upstairs to his chamber, ignoring his half-hearted protests about her honor.

“A girl can chose to do as she pleases in Braavos,” she had said to him matter-of-factly. “And tonight it pleases a girl to lay with you.”

The protests had died on his lips when she had shed her flowing gown and stood before him bare and proud. He had closed his eyes and breathed out “Arya” when she took him in her hands, then he panicked, realizing his mistake and fixing her with a look of such blue-eyed mortification that she couldn’t help but laugh aloud.

“A girl can be Arya Stark, just for tonight” she’d said, clambering onto his lap and claiming his lips as she sunk slowly down onto his pulsing manhood. He’d gasped into her mouth at the sensation but hadn’t protested more, taking her with such passion that she didn’t know whether to cry out in ecstasy or weep from the overwhelming tide of sensation that assaulted her. They’d coupled hard and deep, and it wasn’t until he’d spent himself that he realized her maiden’s blood staining their legs. He’d taken his head in his hands then, whispering sincere apologies to her while she laughed.  He didn't stop berating himself, not until she claimed his mouth again and pushed him onto his back. The second time she’d taken the reigns, riding him as he watched her, watched the lithe curves of her body arch backwards in the candlelight, seeking greater pleasure with each rise and fall. Arya's name had torn from his lips again when he came, sounding almost like a prayer for relief and she’d collapsed onto his broad chest exhausted but satisfied from her own release.

Before sleep had claimed him he’d wrapped an arm around her and kissed her hair, whispering to her in a low sleep-laden voice, “How did a girl know it was Arya _Stark_ who I mentioned earlier?” his grip suddenly tight around her ready to crush her then and there if she turned out to be a foe.

For a moment No One had considered giving him to the Many Faced God, even as she lay there naked and replete in his arms.  But Arya Stark had won that night, and shedding the Braavosi accent she'd perfected over the years as easily as she'd shed her slip hours before she’d whispered back “go to sleep Gendry,” in the true voice of Arya Stark, and he sighed in contentment, kissing her hair once more before his lids fluttered shut and he lost consciousness.

It hurt her more than anything she’d done since leaving the Hound to pour the Stranger’s Shroud Serum in between his firm, blush colored lips, knowing that he would awaken the next day with no memory of the last forty-eight hours. But to be with the Bull would mean to feel again as Arya Stark had felt, and No One was not ready to reclaim that pain, not for the Bull, not for anyone left alive. Arya Stark had lost too much when they'd taken her Bastard Brother.

And so when he awoke alone and clothed as he always was for bed the next morning he’d left, not knowing he had any reason to stay, and she had taken an assignment in Lys to forget the Bull. She had come back to Braavos as No One, ready to return to the service of the Many Faced God.

For weeks, she had done just that. But then the sickness had come, and the exhaustion, making her feel as if a tempest was raging inside her body, only to quiet and come back again every few hours.

She was doing her washing when she finally realized what it was. As she scrubbed the grey robes with water from the narrow sea one day it struck her that it had been a long time since she’d had to scrub blood out of any of her things. She’d been using the gift more and more – avoiding her preferred but admittedly messier method of giving a life to the Many Faced God. But it wasn’t just that. And then she knew, that the illness was more than just an illness, and she understood why she’d not yet been punished for taking a face that to do a task for someone other than the Many Faced God.

Somehow, the Man had known that her realization had come – and when she returned from her washing he was waiting for her, leaning against the stone corridor outside her door.

“A man thinks a girl is a girl no longer.”

“A girl was not a girl when she got here, it is only a man who sees her so.”

“A man sees what he must. But a girl is right – she is a woman now.”

He’d paused then, beckoning to her to follow him down the corridor and into the hall of faces. He kept walking until he came to the one that she had borrowed – the one she’d been wearing the night she made a child with Gendry Waters.

“Does a woman know what the punishment is for those who take from the Many Faced God more than once?”

She did. She’d swallowed then, realizing that she was likely going to die, and realizing that she would do so without any of the cool ambivalence that the Faceless Men had trained her to have towards life.

“Come.” He’d said, beckoning her to follow him once more and she had, slipping her hand into her pockets to grip her matching daggers. She didn’t want to disturb the peace of the house of Black and White, but if her death was coming it would not be a silent one. Arya Stark would not go gentle into the night.

The walked straight out of the temple, going down the steps to gaze out over the Narrow Sea, looking at the lights of boats in the harbor as they swayed and rocked with the current. It was a peaceful scene – and it just made Arya grip her dagger tighter than before.

_Not Today._

“Already a woman feels it.”

She turned to look at him, raising her eyebrow in question.

“Women have been the best Faceless Men in history – and yet, for many it is a harder path. The Many Faced God lets people shed faces from all walks of life, he can make No One of a King, or No One of a slave… But mothers – Mothers cannot be No One.”

She looked at him then, shocked at what he was saying, shocked to hear what she’d just barely come to register as possible confirmed in his light, ever unaffected voice.

“Arya of the House of Stark – I release you from the service of the Many Faced God. The God of Death cannot bind a Bringer of Life – not as she grows with a face he cannot see.”

And with that he whipped around in a blur, so fast that Arya barely had time to pull her dagger and crouch into a defensive stance. But when she looked at his extended arm she realized he held a sword by its thin blade, offering its handle towards her politely.

“Valor Morgulis, Arya of the House of Stark.”

And then he was gone.

She'd been scared then - scared for the first time in a long time - maybe more scared than she'd been at any point since Joffery's Kings Guard broke into her rooms during her lesson with Syrio all those years ago. It wasn't for her safety - she could more than take care of herself - and it wasn't even about providing for their food and livelihood. It was because for the first time since she'd noticed her courses were late she actually realized that she was about to do this alone.  
  
She was so sure that they'd kill her that she hadn't thought through to this part.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I had friends in town all week. More to come soon I promise! Let me know what you think!

Arya

 

She went to Dorne.  She wasn’t ready to be Arya Stark yet, but she could be  _someone_ , and that someone needed to go somewhere where a young mother could also be a fighter.  Her stomach had just started to expand when she bent a knee to Ellaria Sand, pledging her service and her sword to Dorne in the upcoming fight to take Westeros.  At first she’d received smirks from the Sand Snakes, but when she laid Obara out on her back twice in the space of four minutes Ellaria held up her hand, regarding her with new interest, and wariness.

“You say your name is Meria _Snow_ – why do you want to fight for Dorne?”

“We share the same enemies. There are many who have wronged me, but the Lannisters were first on my list, so I shall start with them.  I would be honored to spill Lion Blood in the name of Dorne.”

She nodded, by motioned towards Arya’s small, but visible, stomach.  “And when the child comes?  Will you still want to strike names from your list when you hold you babe in your arms?”

Arya’s eyes hardened at that, but the older woman did not look away.

“It was the child that reminded me that there was a list that needs striking.  My enemies will not live in the world I raise my child in, I promise you that. She will not be denied her childhood as I was."

"She?" Ellaria said with a small smile.

"Just a feeling."

"And you are glad of this?"

"Why in seven hells shouldn't I be?" Arya shot back, her temper getting the better of her.

"Most would want a boy, especially in dark times like these..."

"My mother wanted boys. She got them too – four total, if you count the one she never wanted. Now all my brothers are dead, and only my sister and I remain. Having a cock isn't a defensive strategy, as much as our male compatriots might think it is.”

At that Ellaria smiled, "Well said. Welcome to Dorne, Meria Snow."

Over the next few months Arya found a place for herself in Dorne. She had never really been one for female company, but with each passing day she found herself growing closer to the Sand Snakes. Tyene was the easiest – all Arya had to do is catch her playing her Long Farewell trick on a man who'd insulted her for her to accept Arya as a worthy adversary, and shortly thereafter, as a friend. Once she had an in and began to interact with the younger of Oberyn’s bastard daughters Obara and Nymeria came around to her. Arya showed early on what she could bring to the table combatively, and her help in training their younger sisters soon won her a spot within the close knit band of royal by-blows.

She found that training the younger girls proved to be more than just a means of getting in with the Sand Snakes. For the first time in her life she was contributing to shaping something, building rather than destroying. Was this what Motherhood would be like?

A month before Arya’s child came, Obara crossed the narrow sea for a war counsel in Tyrosh. Daenerys and her troops were closing in – preparing to sail for Westeros from the Disputed Lands – and the Dornish were eager to join in her campaign. In the months that Arya had been in Westeros an uneasy calm had settled across the realm. With Stannis dead in the North, and no one actively challenging the Lannisters, Tommen held onto his throne - though without the same defiant arrogance that had once defined the Lannister line.

News of Cersei’s humiliation had spread through Westeros like wildfire, and that coupled with the news of Marcella’s death had allegedly rendered the Queen Mother a shell of her former self. Margaery was the queen in truth now, yet with each passing day, with each whisper of Daenerys, she seemed to fade from relevancy in the minds of the people.

There was no question about whether or not a war was coming which would decide the fate of all of Westeros, the only question was when.

 

Daenerys

 

“My only question, Tyrion, is _when_.” She said impatiently, staring out of her window in Tyrosh as the sun set over the land that should be, _would_ be, hers.

“It’s not that I don’t like to hear myself speak your majesty, if I’m being honest I probably like it a little too much. Even so it’s the variety of topics that makes my musings worth listening to and I do believe we’ve been over this one a time or nine. We cannot leave until Aegon returns with word of your surly Northern nephew, and I cannot tell you when that will happen, and therefore have little to contribute to that particular subject. If you’d consider moving to the topic of how you will actually rule the land after you burn it to the ground I should be happy to speak with you for hours on end on that particular matter starting with the issue of Storm’s End—“

“I’ve spoken to him already, Tyrion he has no interest…”

“If I may be so bold My Queen, this is not a matter of what does and does not interest him, this is a matter of securing the realm and your throne, starting with the area that succeeded in ousting your family in the first place.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but he just peered up at her, somehow managing to make her feel small and child-like while sitting a full head and a half lower than her. She hated disagreeing with Tyrion, but when it came to the Bull it seemed that it was the only thing they could possibly do.

The ironic thing was, it had been Tyrion who had stayed her hand in the first place when the bastard of Robert Baratheon had come to her in Mereen six months ago. When he’d appeared in her audience chamber her first thought had been that she hadn’t seen anyone so overwhelmingly masculine since she’d lost her Drogo. He was tanned from the sun – such a rich bronze that he almost could have looked Darthraki – if it weren’t for his eyes.

Daenarys knew her eyes were beautiful, but his might just put hers to shame. The blue was a different kind of blue than you saw in the eyes of most people – it was too dark a blue, too rich. Closer to the color of Aegon’s ridiculous hair than to the sky blue or the icy paleness she’d seen on the faces of others. She could spend a lifetime staring into the depths of those particular eyes. Or at least that had been what she’d been thinking, right before Jorah tried to skewer the newcomer on the spot.

He’d dodged her adviser, quick despite his size, and Grey Worm and Daario had restrained the old knight before he could do any more damage. She’d expected the stranger to lash out in anger immediately, striking the old knight as most men would, but instead he just glared at him warily, ready to do something if he had to but in no rush to fight.

“Jorah! All may come before me – explain yourself!” she’d shouted, flustered and filled with adrenalin from the unexpected commotion.

“I’d know that face anywhere Khaleesi – he is the spitting image of Robert Baratheon! He is your enemy!”

She’d stared at the old knight in shock and then whipped around to Tyrion for confirmation.

“Ser Jorah is right my Queen. I presume the young man you see before you is one of the few of Robert’s bastards who survived my sister’s efforts to have them all killed. Unless Renly Baratheon put his cock in some woman once to see what it felt like, though I think he’s likely a tad too old for that paternal possibility.”

She’d turned back around staring at the stranger and burning with fury. She was disgusted with herself – to find the Bastard of her family’s destructer attractive! – and she had no interest in having anything to do with him or with those confounded eyes.

“Take him away.” She’d commanded, nodding at the unsullied who stood guard at the bottom of her platform.

The young man’s eyes had widened – the blue standing out even more against the whites of his eyes with his lashed thrown wide in surprise – but he said nothing as he was seized by two of her guards. She couldn’t help but notice that they looked like children beside his massive frame.

“If I may my Queen—“

“What?” She’d spat glaring at Tyrion for interrupting, hating in that moment that she’d ever thought to make him her Hand of the Queen.

“If we were in the business of damning men based on who their fathers were I’d be a head shorter than I already am. I know for a fact that Robert didn’t acknowledge any of his bastards. I also know that my sister did her very best to have them all exterminated – and I’ve heard, though I cannot be sure – that Stannis had been trying to burn one alive in order to get some kind of divine blessing behind his claim. It may be safe to say that there are few people in Westeros who have a greater vested interest in seeing you restored to the throne as one of my late brother-in-laws unfortunate byblows.”

She’d seethed at that, but the truth of it was clear from Tyrion’s tone. Sometimes he was too good at his job.

“Is that so, Boy?” she’d asked her face contorted into what she hoped was a regal yet contemptuous sneer.

“It is.”

Just from those two words she had been able to detect his low born accent – not overbearing, but rougher and huskier than the high-brow Westerosi of Jorah and Tyrion. It had hit her, making her stomach flip unexpectedly, and she’d known then that she would not be killing him.

“Tyrion is also the son of my enemy, but he brings with him the ability to advise me. Can you advise me, Ser Baratheon?”

“No my Queen.”

“Are you a warrior of great renown?”

“No my Queen.”

“Do you bring men with you?”

“No…” he ground out, flushing slightly with embarrassment.

“What do you offer me then, _Ser Baratheon_?”

“I, _Gendry Waters_ of Flea Bottom, offer you my hammer, oh Queen, that I may be of service to you as a smith, and help you in your campaign to retake Westeros.” He’d said, defiantly correcting her with his base-born name. Her eyes had widened slightly at the reference to his hammer – that Robert Baratheon’s son would have the nerve to carry the weapon of _his father_ in _her_ camp, smith or no…

“And if I asked you to raise this hammer in battle, what would you say then, Gendry Baratheon Waters of Flea Bottom?”

“I would do as you command, my Queen.”

“And why would you do that for me? Why would you come to Mereen at all if you merely wish to be a smith? Why risk the trip, my wrath and the war to come? Is it to avenge the wrongs that have been done to you?”

“Not to me, my Queen.”

“If not to you then to who?” she had demanded, wondering to herself why she felt the need to know.

“To someone who would have had me in their family, had I only been smart enough to accept them,” he’d replied, his eyes burning into her though his voice was low. She’d nodded, realizing it was time for her to make a decision, knowing that the young man had given her as much of an answer as she should demand publicly.

“Very well. But I will be keeping an eye on you Gendry Waters.”

“If that is what you wish, my Queen,” he’d replied softly, and part of her had burned again, though not with fury.

Over the next few weeks she had kept an eye on him, much more so then was proper. Each time, his reactions had baffled her. Although she knew she was being obnoxious and overbearing each time she visited his smithy he seemed constantly amused by her. Even when she ordered him about everything was ‘no, My Queen’ or ‘yes, My Queen’ with a little wry smile on his face that told her he was entertained by her behavior for some private reason. One day, it infuriated her to her breaking point and she had ordered Grey Worm out of the smithy before rounding on him.

“Now why don’t you tell me what you find _so_ amusing about speaking with me that you can’t help but get that stupid look on your face every time you answer me.”

At that he had smiled in truth and she realized, a moment too late, that she was utterly captivated by her Baratheon smith and that she was standing with him alone, in a workshop full of weapons, more focused on the fact that he worked half-naked then on the fact that he was working on crafting a sword that was glowing red with heat. Gods what would Ser Barriston have said? But when his eyes met hers they were the eyes of a friend, of a friend and maybe, maybe something more…

“I am sorry if I seem amused all the time. The way you speak to me just reminds me of someone, someone who was very important to me.”

She’d nodded at that, taking a step closer to him and throwing propriety to the wind. It was ridiculous but she had to know, so she plunged ahead anyway.

“And that… someone, was she your lover?” she’d said, fixing him with her eyes as her breath caught in her chest. He’d looked at her then, putting his work down as his eyes darkened. Yes, there was definitely something more than friendship in those eyes…

“We were too young for that then my Queen.”

“I see. And are you still too young for it now Gendry Waters?” she’d replied, trying to sound mocking and alluring despite the pounding in her chest. He’d chuckled in amusement at that, a rumble deep in his chest that sent her eyes darting back once more to his expansive torso gleaning with sweat and tantalizingly on display. He’d walked out slowly from behind his anvil and come to stand right in front of her.

“I think not Milady.”

And with that she’d thrown caution to the winds, stepped up on her toes, and kissed him. The moment her lips touched him his arms had come around her and she’d found herself lifted off her feet and pressed against his rock hard chest. Rather than protest as she should have done, she’d wrapped her legs around his waist, moaning softly into his kiss as his hands move to her ass and thighs, holding her up and pressing her against him.

She’d ended up splayed out on his cot in the smithy naked, fingers laced in his dark hair as his head moved down her body, kissing and licking his way to her core. She’d exploded in ecstasy as he tongued and kissed her clit, spiraling over the edge when he’d fixed her with his beautiful blue eyes to watch the effect his intimate efforts were having on her. When the pulses of pleasure had finished wracking her body she’d reached for him, eager to free his visibly hard cock from its restraint inside his breeches. He’d grabbed her wrist, gently, but firmly enough to halt her.

“We can’t Milady – I want to more than anything, but I cannot risk getting you with child. A bastard could ruin you.”

She’d laughed at that, deep and throaty, at his innocence and honor, at the fact that there was at least one person left in Essos and Westeros that didn’t know of her barren condition.

“Gendry Waters, if you get a child on me not only would I marry you to make it true born, but I’d bend a knee to you as my Baratheon King.”

And with that she’d twisted out of his grip, which had loosened as his mouth fell open in surprise, and nimbly undid his stays. After that, there had been no more discussion, and every night since then he’d warmed her bed.

Tyrion didn’t like it (though not half as much as Daario hated it) and she knew that her Hand was worried about the smith’s ability to influence her. He turned out to be remarkably stubborn when it came to his own life, and for weeks now she’d been trying with no avail to convince him to let her legitimize him. Tyrion was right – as more Westerosi fighters joined them by the day she saw how many of them recognized him as the Stag King’s Bastard. With Stannis and Renly dead, and Gendry’s poor cousin sacrificed to the Lord of Light, he could be an invaluable asset in taking and _keeping_ Storm’s End.

“Milady!” The sound of a servant’s call snapped her out of her thoughts. She looked up, to see Tyrion peering at her, still apparently wishing to discuss her plans to rule Westeros – starting with the Storm’s End issue.

“Yes?” She said regally – peering at the man who’d spoken.

“Dragon cited on the Horizon, flying in from the North. We’ve only spotted Rhaegal, My Queen.”

“Looks like your second nephew accepted your terms after all,” Tyrion mused, his voice resonating with something akin to awe despite the lightness of his tone. There were three dragon riders now, three Targaryen’s poised to retake Westeros.

And this time she would see they kept it.

“Thank you for your news soldier. And now if you could be so kind as to send Gendry Waters to my audience chamber?” She said rising and sending the messenger scurrying with a nod. The time to launch the attack into Westeros was near at hand – and she needed to rule. With a look of affirmation from Tyrion she steeled herself and prepared to face her lover as his Queen and Sovereign.

It was time for her Bull to become a Stag.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of unhappiness after the last chapter - but I did warn you guys! so I hope no one gets mad at this one... this one's all Arya. Let me know what you think.

Arya

  
  
She was walking across the practice yard, two weeks after Obara had sailed for Tyrosh when it happened. She'd stopped training months before, but she'd insisted on coming to the yard any way, and had for the past month or so devoted all of her time to instructing the younger sand snakes in their water dancing techniques and learning from the mistakes of her peers.  
  
It was not that she hadn't felt pain before - she was no stranger to battle wounds - it was that this pain, this sensation, was wholly different. It felt as if her womb had curled into a fist squeezing her from the inside and yet somehow expanding as it constricted – hardening her already distended belly to the point where even the brush of her shirt felt painful. And then the feeling was gone - leaving her gasping and panting in the middle of the yard as Tyene rushed to her side.  
  
"Hotah! Help her!" Tyene cried, her usually playful demeanor breaking as Arya bent double with the second contraction. Three of Tyene’s younger sisters, Elia, Obella and Loreza had followed in her wake and were peering at their water dancing instructor with looks of concern and alarm in their eyes. Arya felt Areo Hotah's strong reassuring arms come around her and suddenly she was off her feet, being carried off the practice yard like a baby huddled in a mother's arms. She was too nervous to feel embarrassed though, as the third contraction seized her and _held_ her longer than the first two so that she was panting by the time Hotah placed her on the bed.  
  
"Get our mother and the Septa!" Tyene commanded her three younger sisters who had followed them in and Elia, the eldest, scampered away to do her bidding. The two younger girls just looked at Arya laid out on the bed with their eyes wide with anxiety. Despite the pain she sat up and tried to fix the young girls with a reassuring half-smile.  
  
"It's alright little snakes. There's some time yet. Come, take needle from my belt and show me your water dancing.”

Obella nodded at her, her eyebrows still raised with concern, but took the sword from Arya’s side and began to move through the series of perries and thrusts that Arya had taught them in the middle of the spacious room, all the time fixing her with a look of concern. Loreza, the youngest at no more than eight, was not so easily appeased, and came instead to sit on the bed beside Arya and watch her sister, while Tyene left the began to ready the room for labor.

Arya tried to focus on her pupil in front of her, noticing the places where she faltered and the moves that she overextended instead of the rising panic in her chest at the realization that her child was hours away from arriving. Unsurprisingly, focusing on combat was far less terrifying.

Elia returned, her mother and the Septa in her wake as Arya was gripped by her sixth contraction. They were coming in five minute intervals now, and she had begun to slowly walk around the room between them, trying to calm her muscles in preparation for the labor ahead. The Septa had her lay back, checking between her legs to see how progressed she was. She had a moment of amusement when she caught Elia’s face – contorted in disgusted horror at the sight. Despite her own fear, she snorted at the young girl’s expression. She’d certainly felt the same when she was fourteen. Gods how had it come to this? She still felt like she was only a few months away from having been Arry on the King’s Road – and now she was about to bear a child?

Suddenly, the Septa stopped examining her and fixed her with a look of half fear and half pity. Catching the look, Ellaria pressed the old woman sharply.

“What is it? Is there a problem?”

“The child is breech,” the old woman said softly, “I don’t understand it in one so active. It must run in her family.”

Arya swallowed, letting fear wash over her truly for the first time. She’d always been afraid of child birth – ever since she learned that two of her grandfather’s sisters had died delivering children. Her only paternal aunt, Lyanna, hadn’t borne any children so she didn’t know for sure that it ran on the Stark side of the family, and her mother had delivered five healthy children without ever being laid out badly after a labor, but still the fear had persisted.

“Can you flip the child?” Ellaria demanded.

“It is too far along for that now. I don’t want to send the baby into distress. And it’s quite a large child…” her voice trailed off and she gave Arya another sympathetic look.

 _She thinks I’m going to die._ Arya realized, as the septa broke eye contact with her unable to hold her gaze.

“What’s breech?” Loreza asked, shaking Arya from her panicked mind.

“It’s just a way that babies come,” she said, attempting a smile that contorted into a grimace as the next contraction came, harder and more urgent than the last ones. She balled her fists into the bed clothes to keep from crying out.

“You- you should go little snakes, this will take a long time and I can certainly think of more exciting things to do with your day,” she said trying her best to sound casual and reassuring. Giving muscle to her suggestion, Ellaria gestured to the door, clearly signaling to her young daughters that it was time to leave.

“Daughters your instructor is tired, we will let you know when the baby arrives.”

“You-you’ll be alright though, right Meria?” Loreza said, hovering by the exit, with Obella standing nervously by her side.

Arya smiled, touched by their concern but unwilling to lie to them, despite they’re young age. Instead she just cocked her head, looked at them pointedly, and tried to reassure them the only way she knew.

“What do we say to the God of Death?”

“Not today,” they said in unison, seeming to find it heartening, before allowing themselves to be led away by one of the palace servants.

“Elia you should join your sisters,” Ellaria said pointedly to her fourteen year old but her middle daughter only shook her head.

“I will stay and help.   We will need to take turns with her will we not? I will stay.”

Ellaria exchanged a look with Tyene, the eldest of her daughters, and then nodded sighing.

“Very well. You are almost a woman grown. You may stay, but should you want to leave at any time there is no shame in that.”

Elia nodded and Arya found herself smiling at the young girl’s bravery. Her months with the Sand Snakes had taught her that Ellaria and Oberyn’s second daughter – named for her aunt who was killed – was by far the girl whom Arya could relate most closely to, despite the five years separating them in age. According to Tyene she had reminded their father so much of his sister that it often pained him to be around her for that long, leaving Elia feeling like there was something wrong with her. She was less self-assured in her beauty than her sisters (except for Obara and the youngest one, Loreza) but what she lacked in aesthetic self-confidence she made up for in sheer unrelenting determination. Though she was younger than Tyene by five years she was swiftly becoming as skilled a fighter and her four older sisters, and would soon be ready to join their battle ranks in earnest. Arya knew that Ellaria was struggling, trying to find a way to keep her middle child from joining them on their campaign when Obara returned.

Another contraction tore her from her thoughts and this time she cried out in earnest, trying to breathe through it as the septa was instructing. Warm liquid rushed down her legs and she saw Ellaria’s two girls pale. Her labor had begun in earnest.

For the next four hours all there was in her world was unbearable pressure, pain, and exhaustion. She was slick with sweat from the effort, and she could tell from the faces of the Septa and Ellaria that they did not expect things to go well.

“Was the father a large man?” the Septa attempted delicately.

“Yyyess,” Arya ground out, “he was a big, stupid, Bull, and if I ever see him again I’ll beat him senseless for this!”

Ellaria smiled knowingly and wiped her hair away from her face, “when each child came, I would scream and curse at Oberyn, telling him he was no longer welcome in my bed, that he could fuck all the whores he wished but he would never again put me through this pain. And yet less than a few months later, I would be begging for him to take me once more. This will pass child, and you will forget. And you will love your baby, no matter what you feel for the man who gave you her.”

“Her?” Arya said, mimicking their first conversation together.

Ellaria smiled again. “Just a feeling. Only a daughter could give you this much stress before taking her first breath.”

After an hour more the Septa informed her that it was time to push. She made her get on all fours, with Elia and Tyene supporting her shoulders so her arms didn’t give way. She was blind with the pain, but she threw the last of her focus into the effort, pushing with all of her might.

“The bottom is coming! You’re almost there!” the Septa cried. She pushed again and felt it - almost heard the tearing sound – and Tyene gasped aloud.

“Why is Meria bleeding like that?! She shouldn’t be bleeding so!”

But she didn’t have time to focus on that, she couldn’t let herself think about anything but those last… few… pushes…

And then the strangest sensation of emptying she’d ever felt in her life occurred and she heard Elia and the Septa gasp with delight. Their gasps were drowned out by the sweet, strong cry of a child.

“It’s a girl!” Elia cried with delight, “another little snake!”

“No!” Arya heard herself gasp. Her voice had never sounded so faint or so distant.

“What is wrong with her?! Septa why is Meria so pale! What is happening?!” Elia began to cry out over the baby’s wails as Arya felt herself collapse onto the bed and stars began to cloud her vision.

“Elia come away,” Ellaria said, her voice uncharacteristically tight. “You there – get the Maester!” she shouted at one of the servants in the room who flew out the door and up the stairs.

“Meria! Are you all right?! Speak to us!” Tyene said, shaking her so that her eyes flitted around momentarily coming back into focus and landing on the two sisters, who now stood beside her, the younger one holding a tiny, shifting bundle.

“Let-let me hold her,” she managed, her voice sounding so off. There were tears in Elia’s eyes but she came forward nonetheless and placed the baby in her arms. The little girl had a head of black hair, and was swinging her little balled fists wildly, hitting Arya in the chest as she settled her into place. The small blow brought tears to her eyes and before she knew it they were streaming down her face.

“My little wolf,” she cooed her voice cracking, as she put the infant to her breast. Stars and darkness clouded her vision once again and she realized that she might indeed be dying and that this child, this tiny baby could be all that is left of her entire family. And the tragedy of it was, if she didn’t make it the child would never know, would never have any sense of who she was and what family she truly belonged to. The infant’s eyelids fluttered open, and grey eyes locked onto her own, and Arya knew what she had to do. Drawing what little strength she had left, she forced her eyes up once more and looked at Tyene and Elia, who were watching her with looks of petrified concern on their faces.

“Sh-she is n-not a snake, sh-she is a wolf. She is—“

She glanced down at the baby once more, knowing that she was losing her grasp on consciousness and that this might be the last time she ever saw her child. Those familiar eyes stared up at her, so like the ones she’d grown up loving, and she forced the words out of her mouth with the last of her energy.

“She is Joana Stark.”

And then the darkness took her.


	4. Chapter 4

Ellaria

  
She'd known the northern girl was strong, but even so she was surprised by how quickly the new mother had recovered. Ellaria had never experienced a labor that dangerous and yet with each of her children it had taken her six weeks before she had attempted any kind of physically demanding exercise. Yet their little thorny Northern Rose had insisted almost from the day she could walk to be permitted to get back to the practice yard.

Not that she wasn’t an attentive mother. No _Meria_ , as she still insisted on being called, had not disappointed her. Though she insisted on spending her days in the practice yard, overseeing the training of her younger children, and training against the older Sand Snakes and the soldiers of Dorne the new mother did so with after setting up a tent, where the septa sat, tending to Joana in the shade as Meria toiled in the sun.  The young mother even insisted on feeding her own child, sending away the wet nurse Tyene found for her graciously but firmly.  More than one Dornish soldier had to be stitched back up after stopping mid-training to try to get a glimpse of her feeding Joana in between bouts, straining to see in as the wind lifted the flap of the tent invitingly.  No, Ellaria knew that though she tried not to show it, the young mother was infatuated with her tiny daughter.

And who wouldn’t be? The child was stunning – the mirror of her mother, though with a slightly swarthier complexion. As the months went by her eyes stayed the same captivating grey color they had been at birth, except that they developed a deep blue ring around the outside of the irises, which if anything only highlighted the astonishing grey contained within. She had been big at birth – though more long than chubby – and as she grew she stayed in the higher range of what the septas said was normal for an infant. The father, whoever he was, must have been an impressive man indeed.

Two months after Joana’s birth Obara returned from the Dragon Queen’s war counsel. Apparently the third Targaryen, the one they were calling the Dark Prince of the North, had joined his aunt’s cause, and would help secure the North while Daenerys and her nephew Aegon launched an attack from Tyrosh. The plan, according to Obara, was to split the forces, with the majority going to Storm’s End where Daenerys planned on installing one of Robert Baratheon’s bastards as the new lord in the hopes that the surrounding Banner Men would jump at the opportunity to follow one of theirs into battle.  Meanwhile she, and a contingent of pirates and sell swords she picked up from her time in Essos would seize Dragon Stone and set up a blockade, choking Kings Landing off from the sea. According to Obara the Queen needed the Sand Snakes and Dornishmen to swing around to the West and seize Highgarden, cutting off the capital city’s main supply line while her troops held the city under siege.  Then, when King’s Landing falls, should the King not capitulate, the Dornish will be poised to March on Lannisport and Casterly Rock.

Ellaria shared the plan with the Sand Snakes and their closest confidants later that night, her eyes flitting around the table to see the reactions of her party. Everyone seemed contented with their role, though she knew many of them would prefer to march straight for King’s Landing themselves. She saw Meria’s eyes widen at the mention of the Baratheon bastard but the North woman said nothing, just nodding when Ellaria announced that they would be taking Highgarden.

After the counsel was ended she dismissed everyone, but called to Meria to stay behind. The young mother complied, following her from their war counsel into Ellaria’s private chambers, before settling on a chair and looking into her eyes expectantly.  She smiled at the girl, knowing that no matter how this conversation ended she was glad the little Northern warrior had chosen Dorne as her haven. Still, she had ignored the issue for as long as she could - before they moved out she had to know where the young woman stood.

“Your daughter is growing well,” she began, smiling.

“Yes… yes she is. Each day I swear she’s heavier by half,” Meria said, smiling in unconcealed pride.

“More beautiful as well.”

“Thank you m’lady,” she said, letting the formality roll of her tongue easily, giving the older woman deference without hesitation. Ellaria laughed.

“Sand is not the name of a lady, child, as you well know. No, _I_ am no lady.” She took a deep breath knowing it would have to be now, “but _Stark_ … now that is the surname of great ladies, going back as far as the Andalls could record.”

The young mother in front of her stiffened.

“Yes… yes I suppose it is, but I really don’t see—“

“Meria, this would all be so much easier if we didn’t lie to each other.”

“I had just given birth I was delirious—“

“You were _unguarded_ , child, that is not the same.”

In one fluid moment the north woman stood, coming so close to Ellaria that the older woman couldn’t help but inhale in surprise. They were friends - Ellaria had almost begun to see her as as much of an adoptive daughter as Obara and Nymeria over the last few months - but just then she realized she needed to tread carefully. This young mother was a wolf, and she would not hesitate to rip out the throat of anyone who threatened her child.

“What are you saying Ellaria…” the girl before her said in a low voice. Steeling herself for what was to come, she plunged forward.

“I am saying that you are Ned Stark’s missing daughter. That you are the child who escaped King’s Landing, slipping between the clawing fingers of Cersei Lannister before she could use you in her plots and schemes. That you are the heiress of the North, and that your _child_ , whoever her father is, is the last in a long line of a proud house. Am I correct?”

The grey eyes burned into her, full of caution and adrenalin. She wondered if she’d pushed the girl too far, if she would lash out to protect herself from discovery, if she and the babe would disappear that night and never be seen or heard from again. But then, without breaking her gaze, the young mother opened her mouth to speak.

“Yes. You are correct.”

“Arya…” Ellaria breathed unable to keep her awe contained. After seven years the lost wolfling had been found. Arya’s eyes widened at the name, her gaze suddenly seeming locked on something far away, as if the name was stirring images in her mind of memories long forgotten.

“Yes.” She said, more to herself than to Ellaria, as if she was confirming her identity within her own mind.

“Now I understand your need to take vengeance against the Lannisters,” Ellaria whispered quietly. “But do you not feel the need to go to King’s Landing? We will only be going to Highgarden for now, and who knows if we will ever push on to Casterly Rock. I would have you fight beside us, but before I put my trust in you, before I plan my strategy with you in it, I must know whether you want to stay. If you would prefer to go to King’s Landing, or to meet the Queen’s liege lord at Storm’s End I would send you along with four of our most loyal men.  We would still part as allies, Arya, of the House of Stark.”

At the mention of Storm’s End Arya’s eyes flew up to hers again, focusing on her with fierce intensity. _That’s it then_ , Ellaria thought to herself, S _he wants join the fight for Storms End and I shall have to let her go. She’s a Stark – her fight is not in Highgarden._ Still, her heart ached to let the young woman go, for her daughters and for herself. They all benefited from the steely strength of the little Northern Warrior. She sighed, and went on, resigned.

“Joana may stay here for as long as you wish it. I hear that the Baratheon Bastard is quite a man, it would not surprise me if he brings all of the Storm Lands to heel in a matter of weeks. According to Obara, it only took him a few weeks before he tamed the Mother of Dragons. After her, I’m sure the remnants of the Baratheon banner men are hardly a challenge at all.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed slightly at that, and Ellaria couldn’t understand the look on the young woman’s face. She almost looked incredulous.

“They are lovers?” she asked, disapproval playing clearly over her features. Ellaria laughed.

“Goodness child, I thought that after all these months in Dorne you’d be less quick to judge the sexual escapades of others. Is it because she is a Queen that you think it improper for her to take a lover? How positively prudish of you!”

Arya’s features readjusted immediately at the taunt, and she just shrugged. “No – that’s not it, I just figured she’d go for her nephew is all, being a Targaryen and everything. Plus doesn’t she have two to choose from? Isn’t there one in the North too?”

Ellaria laughed again. “Yes, there is, although from what I hear he had to be brought back from the dead. They are saying that he is Azor Ahai reincarnated, and that he is the king of the Wildlings. How he manages to be all those things _and_ a Targaryen the Gods only know, but Obara said he took the dragon, and that is proof enough for me. Still, for the Queen though, you cannot blame her, can you, for taking a lover?”

“No,” Arya said quietly, seeming oddly subdued, “no, I do not blame her at all.”

She was losing her again, Ellaria realized, losing her to that locked place in her mind where she always retreats to when she didn’t want to be with others. In a last effort to keep her there, to find out with finality what her plans were, Ellaria flashed her a playful smile.

“You will have to tell us then, when you go to Storm’s End, if this Baratheon Bastard is worthy of our Queen’s attention. I shall want a detailed report on all of his… _qualifications_ you observe. From afar, of course.”

“No!” Arya said, with a vehemence that shocked her. “I mean—that is, no I won’t be able to report on him, or anyone else in Storm’s End I am afraid. I would ride with you Ellaria, and the Sand Snakes, if you will still have me, on one condition.”

She was surprised, but relieved.

“Of course, we would have you with us with a hundred conditions – but tell me child, what is yours?”

“Joana comes with me. Wherever I go.”

Ellaria smiled again, unable to help the warm feeling of affinity she had for the girl from spreading through her chest.

“Of course.”

Four weeks later, they left for war.


	5. Chapter 5

Arya

 

Taking Highgarden was proving to be an easier task than Arya would have thought. The knights of Highgarden were renowned throughout the realm for their skill and gallantry. Arya herself could remember seeing them ride in the tournament she’d witnessed when she first came to King’s Landing, and could remember being impressed with them then.

But war was not a tournament, and gallantry becomes an impediment when you get used to opponents who play within a set of defined rules.

 _They’re not smart enough._ She thought to herself as she felled her ninth man of Highgarden with a knife to the neck as he traded blows with Tyene. _They can only conceptualize the opponent in front of them. They have pay no mind to the opponent behind._

She made a mental note to practice fighting multiple opponents with Elia when they next trained. The girl, who had celebrated her fifteenth name day only a few weeks ago had been allowed to join the campaign party against Dorne despite her mother’s reluctance. Arya had come across Ellaria standing on a balcony overlooking the Water Gardens, watching her middle daughter bring things out to the caravan with a pained look on her face. When she’d heard Arya approach she’d looked up warily, her eyes watery with unshed tears.

“She is the most like him. Of all of them, of the girls he got on other women and of my children, it is in her I see him. Every day.”

Arya had nodded in understanding, and they’d stood there together, not speaking but lending each other support in their silence. When she’d turned to go at last the older woman had spoken, her voice still tight but determined.

“When you leave us – be it after Highgarden or years from now – she will want to go with you. Dorne is not a wide enough world for her, I’ve known it since she was a babe in my arms. If I am not there to give my blessing, know that would want her to go. You do not need to tell her who you truly are until you are ready – but if I am not there, do not leave without her. Promise me this.”

Arya had nodded, a knot building in her throat as she did so. She had not been able to imagine the older woman falling – she was all strength steely intellect, holding not only the Sand Snakes but the people of Dorne together with her unwavering thirst for vengeance against the family that had escaped punishment for the wrongs they wrought on their proud kingdom for over two decades.

But she had promised nonetheless and in the weeks since they had left Dorne she had appointed herself something of Elia’s secondary guardian. The arrangement worked well as Elia had volunteered to help with Joana and the older Sand Snakes had been grateful and relieved to have someone in charge of their younger sister whose edicts would actually be heeded. Ellaria had put her foot down about Elia being part of the vanguard today though, on their first day fighting the men of  Highgarden in the field, and so Elia was currently safely back with the caravans, tending to Joana and the injured as they were brought in. She’d agreed to the arrangement, but only for the day, only under the pretext that her sisters, her mothe,r and Arya were scoping out the fighting capacities and styles of the men of the Reach before putting her into battle beside them.

 _But if we kill them all today…_ Arya thought to herself mercilessly as she cut down another opponent, making her way through the thicket of fighters, sword in hand. She had nothing against the people of Highgarden, their allegiance to the crown was one of necessity and advantage, something she could appreciate even if she didn’t respect it. But Arya was long past the point of only killing those she took issue with – her years at the House of White and Black had cleansed her of that. No, she would kill as many of the men of the Reach as she could, without joy but without hesitation as well. Keeping Elia out of battle was more reason to take life than she’d had in years anyway, and once Highgarden fell…

Then it was on to Casterly Rock. Word had come from the Dragon Queen not long after they’d taken Horn Hill that Cersei had fled Kings Landing with Tommen and made for the Rock in the dead of the night, leaving a pregnant Margaery and half the King’s guard behind in the capital. The battle for Horn Hill had lasted less time than expected, as Randyll Tarly was still in King’s Landing serving a King who’d now turned and fled, and it was decided that once they took Highgarden they would immediately march on to the Rock where Aegon would join them in taking down the last of the Lannisters. Her vengeance was near at hand.

The fighting continued through the day and into the night. Eventually, Arya fought her way to the center of the melee where Garlan Tyrell and Dickon Tarly were holding the line as the last bastion of strength for the men of the Reach.

 _Take them. Take them down and it’s done,_ Arya thought to herself, circling close to the two men who were fighting back to back. Obara, who was locked in combat not far off saw what she was doing and dispatched the man she was fighting with haste, beckoning to Nymeria to join them.

The wolf and the two Sand Snakes surrounded the two knights, going blow for blow. Arya noted that Dickon could not have been much older than she was, probably also raised in war, but she had no time to think of him as anything but a mark, another gift to be offered to the Many Faced God.

Still, when Nymeria fell back, howling in pain after Garlan dealt her a blow to the thigh Arya was happy to leave the boy knight to Obara and switch to the older opponent. It didn’t take long, and as Obara drove her curved knife up below the Tarly boy’s breast plate Garlan stumbled back from the loss of support at his back and Arya put Needle straight through his wind pipe.

After that the men of the Reach lost their will to fight, and before long the flag of truce was flying above the city and the gates were flung open.

Early the next morning Arya, with four month old Joana on her hip attended the meeting of formal surrender alongside Ellaria, Tyene and Obara. Across from them sat Willas and Olana Tyrell, the heir to Highgarden and the Matriarch of the Tyrell clan. Willas’ leg had been maimed in a joust against Oberyn years before, but still, he managed to deal with Ellaria and the Sand Snakes without bitterness. They were able to quickly work out the conditions of surrender, coming to stand and seal the agreement by grasping hands after little more than an hour. When Arya got to Olana, the old woman eyed Joana with a look of such pain in her red rimmed eyes that for the first time in years Arya found herself wishing that she could give back a life taken.

“You are smart, to keep her with you,” the old lady said, in a hushed voice, reaching out a gnarled hand to stroke Joana’s wispy black curls lightly. “It’s when you let them out of your sight that they can get hurt. Remember that. Don’t ever let her be taken out of your sight for longer than you have to, no matter what you’re offered to ease the pain of parting. It’s never worth it… in the end.”

She’d nodded and laid a hand over the old woman’s squeezing it gently in support despite herself, and was only brought back to their surroundings by a knock on the door. One of the knights standing behind Willas opened the door, and a fat Maester, his face flushed as if he’d just run a great distance stood in the doorway. He only had a few links in his chain, but for his age the number was still impressive. She was surprised though to see that he was clad all in Black. While Maesters were always dressed somberly, she’d never seen anyone but a Man of the Nights Watch clad in Black entirely.

“S-sorry, Master Tyrell, its only, its only well that I heard that you were negotiating the terms of the surrender and I was hoping that I might, that I might be able to ransom my brother’s body,” at these last words his voice got hushed as if the saying of them was in some way making the horrible thing true, and Arya felt her heart go out to the young man.

“We do not ransom bodies,” she said, knowing that Ellaria had decreed it so already, but feeling the need to be the one to assure him herself. She must be going soft in her old age.

His eyes flitted up to her, looking at her for the first time since he came into the room, and his mouth fell open in shock.

“Jon…” he breathed. So he was a man of the Night’s Watch after all. Under other circumstances that would have put him in very serious danger – she had added to her list the unknown names of all the men who’d betrayed her brother - but there was something in his voice, a longing and a hurt, that made her certain that he at least had not been among the mutineers.

Seeing the exchange Ellaria’s eyes had widened slightly, understanding the significance of her dead brother’s whispered name, and so she stepped between them her voice clipped and brisk.

“As Meria said, we do not ransom bodies. Come with us now, or join one of the parties leaving later if you would like, and you may recover your dead. We will keep weapons and armor that can be of use to us against the Lannisters, but you may have your brother’s body.”

“Th-thank you, Milady,” he stammered eyes still trying to get a better look at Arya. She forced herself to look down at that, despite her burning desire to question the man to find out everything, anything he could tell her about her brother and those responsible for his death. But revealing herself was too great a price, especially in a room filled with Tyrells, not when she was still unsure if or when she would reclaim her old name and take her place in the North. So instead she looked down until the door opened again and she saw the man’s black clad legs quit the room.

She didn’t go and seek him out later, though the desire to do so burned through her for the rest of the day. She saw him from afar though, in line to collect the corpse of his brother, looking forlorn and crestfallen. On an impulse she pulled aside one of the men overseeing the line, telling him to return everything taken from the body requested by the Maester in Black, and to take whatever it was out of her share of the spoils. The Maester had looked around when the body had been returned with its armor, and she was sure he was searching for a glimpse of her in the crowd, but after a few minutes he’d given up, placing his brother’s corpse into a cart before climbing up into the driver’s seat to sit beside a mousy haired woman and a similarly mousy haired young boy and driving off into the night.

She knew she should leave it, but in spite of herself she found herself walking across the clearing after he’d disappeared from view and beckoning to the man she’d spoken with earlier.

“What crest was that on the armor you just returned? I was too far off to make it out and I want to make sure Ellaria knows which to subtract from my portion.”

“House Tarly, mum. Of Horn Hall.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets his aunt's lover before the battle for King's landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay!! Summer got crazy hectic, but I'm hoping to be able to update all of my stories a little more regularly in the coming weeks :) Just so its clear, this chapter is going on about at the same time as the last chapter, but featuring other people (that should be instantly obvious) Let me know what you think - I'm not super into writing action so I'd love feed back!

Jon

 

He hated flying down from the wall.

Daenerys understood, for the most part. She knew how important it was to him to stay there, to keep the white walkers at bay, to be ready for when they launched their final deadly assault. But every once and a while she insisted that he join them in the campaigns in the South, and so, like the loyal subject he’d vowed to be when she gave him Viserion, he had learned to come when she summoned.

Its not that he didn’t understand, his aunt had needed the support of him and Viserion for the siege of King’s Landing. He’d flown down in one long trip, unwilling to drag his absence from the wall out any longer than he needed to, coming upon Daenerys’ camp in the early morning light of dawn. Though he knew the city needed to be taken swiftly in order for their cause to succeed and for Aegon and Daenerys to be able to come North with their dragons to fight the Walkers, Jon found little joy in seeing the city. Even though he’d never been to the capital himself, the place still held too many ghosts for him. His father (adoptive father, he had to remind himself) had died here. This had been the sight of Sansa’s torture and humiliation at the hands of Joffery Baratheon. And Arya – his little wolf, the one who loved him best – had disappeared here, never to be heard from again. No this place held nothing but heartbreak for him, and the sooner he could return to his frozen wasteland, to the task he’d been risen from the dead to complete, the better.

Though she was launching a sea attack from the harbor Daenerys had called him to meet her at a camp just south of the city that had been set up by Gendry Baratheon. Jon had heard whispers of the Baratheon Bastard. Apparently he had been born in Flea Bottom, and had been unaware of his paternity until after he’d grown into adulthood. Rumor had it he’d escaped attempts on his life from not only Cersei Lannister but also his own uncle Stannis, who’d apparently sought out Robert’s bastards for his dark magic before turning to other, more treasured sources of King’s Blood. Jon thought the stories to be far-fetched – though he supposed he was in no position to judge unlikely origins tales – until Ser Davos, Stannis Baratheon’s old Hand of the King and Jon’s new right hand man, had quietly confirmed that he’d freed the Baratheon Bastard himself, sending him out into the night with nothing but a row boat and a prayer to save him from the Red Woman’s blood lust.

Ser Davos had described the boy he freed as the spitting image of Renly Baratheon, and Jon supposed it must be true, as Gendry Baratheon had been met by cheering crowds rather than resisting troops when he went to take the Storm Lands. With all the real Baratheons dead the people of the Storm Lands seemed happy to take a royal bastard as their liege lord over an inbred Lannister.

Despite the Young Bull’s successful and practically bloodless conquest of the sitting king’s claimed ancestral lands, most of the rumors that had reached Jon had been concerned with a conquest of a different sort. Not that Jon cared who Daenerys Targaryen took to bed – he had far greater concerns to occupy his mind than his aunt’s erotic predilections – but the small folk did, and the small folk were abuzz with news of the Bull from Flea Bottom who now wore the Stag signet and was willing to offer a good deal more than just his famed war hammer in service of the Mother of Dragons.

So as he began to descend into his Aunt’s camp Jon couldn’t help but feel a bit guarded as he slid off Viserion silently and stalked over to the main tent without more than a curt nod to the men who’d scattered at the sight of the incoming and unfamiliar dragon. Best just to get it over with.

His first impression of Gendry Baratheon was that he wasn’t very good at pretending to enjoy war. Even after all the bloodshed of the past six years, most men Jon encountered at least _pretended_ to get a rush from the thought of conquest. Gendry on the other hand had been in the middle of an explanation of why a certain strategy would hit the wrong areas of the city, causing unnecessary deaths among the small folk with little tactical advantage as Daaros scowled and Daenerys watched him with unmasked approval. He had stopped though, the moment Jon walked in, completely flabbergasted by the sight of him. Jon was disappointed, but not surprised, many people feared him now that news of his peculiar _recovery_ had spread, so he wasn’t expected anything more noteworthy than the usual ‘seven hells’ or ‘mother preserve us’ to come from Gendry’s lips when he heard the bastard gasp.

 _“Arya.”_ The tall man breathed out in astonishment, blue eyes fixed on Jon’s grey-eyed scowl.

Jon’s eyes widened and he rushed across the room, as Tyrion’s sharp gaze flew to the Bastard and Daaro, unaware of the context but able to read the energy of the room reached for the hilt of his blade. Dany jumped to her feet a moment later, moving in between Jon and Gendry and looking crossly from one to the other.

“What is going on here? Who is Arya?”

“My Sister,” Jon’s voice came out low and menacing, though actually what he felt was more akin to a furious and overwhelming sense of hope. The feeling was so strong that the thought of it was enough to choke him. Dany’s eyes widened at that and she turned to look up into the face of her lover, questions etched across her raised brow.

“You’re Jon Snow,” Gendry said, as if putting together the pieces of some puzzle only he could see.

“Yes.” Or at least he had been, until a few months ago, but none of that mattered now, so Jon pressed, “How do you know my sister?”

“We- we left King’s Landing together. With Yoren, right after her, sorry _your_ father was killed.”

Jon felt as if his heart were going to burst. She’d survived King’s Landing. She’d gotten out safe after all. But Yoren had been killed almost seven years ago now.

“When did you last see her? How long were you together?” He could hear the quiver in his voice but he couldn’t care less.

The Bastard’s face fell at that. “Five years ago now. We were together for two years in the Riverlands, her and I and one other boy from King’s Landing. But the men we were with, well they traded me to the Red Woman for two sacks of gold and I never saw her again after that. I know the Brotherhood without Banners was set to take her to your brother the day after we parted.”

The words hung in the air, and Jon felt a wave of despair and disbelief wash over him.

“But surely, if she had been at the Red Wedding, word would have spread,” Daenerys said, slowly, her eyes going between the two legitimized bastards as if to comfort them both, “They would have known they had a Stark Daughter too, and either killed her as well or married her off so someone could claim Winterfell in her name? If she was there we would know.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Gendry’s voice came out as a murmur as his eyes fell to the ground. “She disguised herself. Yoren had her dress like a boy going into the Night’s Watch to avoid suspicion and then once he was killed she kept up the rouse for protection. Took me months to realize who she really was. Only, only Hot Pie and I knew, before the Brotherhood took us. To the casual onlooker she would have looked more like a squire than a Princess of the North.”

Jon snorted, half lovingly, half bitterly, “Knowing her, she probably preferred it that way.” The Baratheon Bastard’s eyes flew to meet his once again and he nodded, the shadow of a smile teasing the corner of his lips.

“Aye.”

The rest of the council meeting passed in a blur, as did the days following. Jon had prepared for so many campaigns, so many attacks, that the days spent in preparation all seemed to blend together, into one chaotic frenzy of anticipation. They had news already that Cersei had fled, and they agreed that as soon as the Red Keep fell Aegon would fly to Casterly Rock to meet up with the Dornish forces laying siege there. Jon would not stay for that fight though, he could not leave the wall unguarded for that long, no matter how much he’d like to punish the Lannisters for all that they’ve done to his family.

When the fight began it was different. Jon had gotten used to fighting wights who charge anything with fierce, undead abandon, or White Walkers, who enter battle with the deadly calm of one who knows they have nothing to fear from their enemy. Even when he’d last fought against men, the men had been Wildlings: fierce, brave, and willing to die a thousand deaths rather than crumble in fear.

But _these_ people, the people of King’s Landing, were far from Wildlings, and as he charged the ramparts a fifth time on Viserion he couldn’t help but notice the way the small folk screamed in terror when the dragon’s shadow passed over them, even though he made sure to limit his attack to the soldiers far more than the arrows and missiles from the men outside the gate. Below him he could see the carnage their misfires had produced. Store fronts and houses had been reduced to rubble by stones from the catapults, and the screams of those trapped inside echoed through the narrow streets, adding to the din of war. People and livestock ran through the streets in desperate search of shelter, all wearing the same harried, panicked expression.

This needed to end, and soon. They’d agreed that the ultimate goal was to deplete troop numbers until it was safe for Jon and Aegon (who was attacking from the East) to land inside the keep right beside the gate and open it from the inside. That logic seemed foolish now – it would be days, maybe weeks, before there were enough soldiers killed in King’s Landing to make it safe to land two out of the three dragons. By then there would be nothing to rule over save a pile of rubble and a mountain of corpses if things kept up like this. He was tired of waiting, tired of fighting his own people, when there was a real enemy, waiting for him in the North. So he turned Viserion towards the gate, willing him with his mind to aim his flames at the men surrounding it. He took out his bow too for good measure, and for the better part of an hour they attacked the gate relentlessly. Outside he heard a horn sound – from Gendry Baratheon’s troops, he realized, and an onslaught of arrows and missiles came to assist them. Slowly but surely they beat the men back from the gate.

Daenerys caught sight of what they were doing and flew over to assist, her eyes locking on Jon’s from the back of Drogon, questioning, but supportive. You could say many things about his Aunt, but no one could say she didn’t love her people. The sight of the devastation bothered her as well.

As soon as Daenerys moved into position over the gate, Jon saw his opportunity and took it. He held up a hand to her to signal that she should stay where she was, and then spun Viserion around midair, speeding back over the gate to where their ground troops were outside. He caught sight of Gendry and his generals immediately, and landed right beside them.

“I need a man to come with me – I’m going to attempt to open the gate!” Jon yelled over the din. Without hesitating, Gendry strode up to him, passed him his war hammer, and clambered onto Viserion’s back.

“I didn’t mean you – I just need one of your men,” Jon shouted to the bastard over the din.

“None of them know the city like I do. And besides, the cranks for the portcullis are heavier than you’d think possible. I’m not sending someone in who I can’t be sure will be able to do it. Besides – the Baratheon Bannermen know more about waging war than I could ever hope or want to know, so my men are in good hands. Now let’s go.”

Jon nodded, impressed by the Bastard's bravery and frank assessment of his own strengths and weaknesses, and spurred Viserion back into the air. They rocketed over the city walls, the dragon spitting a constant stream of flames as they went. When they were in position, he sent Viserion into a dive and landed in the court yard just inside the gate, unsheathing long claw as he went. On the other side of the dragon he heard Gendry’s boots land on the ground with a thud. The charred and broken bodies of men were everywhere, but he had no time for that now – his whole focus needed to be on opening the gate. Overhead, he saw Daenerys circle Drogon once more, stopping the men who’d begun rushing towards them in their tracks. If this was going to work, it had to be now, and it had to be fast.

He shouted “take right!” to Baratheon before breaking out in a sprint towards the left tower, cutting men down as he went. His mind touched Viserion’s and the dragon moved in place behind the two sprinting men, spitting flames at the few soldiers who dared to run after them. No one would be coming up the stairs behind them, at least. So that just left the men in the tower. Jon sprinted up the narrow stairs, blade drawn, and caught the first man in the gut before he even had time to think. At the sight of his friend skewered thus, the second man coming for him let out a cry, and began running back up the stairs. One well aimed blow, and Jon slashed him from shoulder to hip, sending him screaming and tumbling down the stairs with his back arched in pain. When he reached the platform he made quick work of the two remaining men, and then ran to the window to look into the other tower.

Gendry Baratheon was as strong as an ox, and he’d seen him wield his war hammer to terrifying effect in the practice yard, but that didn’t change the fact that he was largely inexperienced when it came to battle. And if he didn’t make it, well then this was all for naught. There had to be two at least to raise the portcullis.

Then he saw him come into view through the small window – hammer connecting with a sickening crunch with his last opponent’s jaw, before he turned to look over at Jon. He was flushed from the effort but unharmed, and when he took hold of the crank Jon felt, for the first time, that this might actually work.

“ON THREE!” he shouted and fifteen feet away in the other tower Gendry nodded in affirmation.

The crank was harder to move than he’d imagined, but somehow out of sheer will he managed to get it moving. As the portcullis began to creep slowly upwards, he touched minds with Viserion again, asking him to release two short spouts of flame into the air. He saw the balls of fire fly up through the open window, and on the other side of the gate he heard the renewed sound of men running the battering ram. He spoke to Viserion again, and outside he heard the dragon turn, following his instructions to blast the gate with flames from the inside. Everything was going perfectly but he needed to move – the thought of his dragon left so exposed by his request made him itch to get back and defend his partner. Finally the portcullis cranked into its resting place, and Jon through the lock in place before sprinting down the stairs.

Despite Dany’s aerial protection Viserion’s cream colored hide was still littered with nicks and wounds from where cross bow bolts had hit him. He had a tear in one wing, and a nasty, barbed arrow near his left shoulder. The sight of his companion’s wounds filled Jon with a fiery rage, and he found himself charging a soldier who was taking aim again with his cross bow – running the man through with long claw before he even had time to register that Jon was there.

He turned to see Gendry reemerging from the second tower and Viserion’s head whipping around, startled by the unexpected man behind his flank.

“Viserion! To me!” Jon called, and the dragon’s menacing eye left the Smith and returned to Jon. They’d done enough on the ground, it was time for them to go.

“Gendry! Let’s go!” he shouted, and the man sprinted to him, getting on the dragon’s back behind him only seconds before they launched back into the air. Moments later, they heard a cheer rise up from the men, and looked down to see their troops pouring in through the now destroyed gate.

They’d taken King’s Landing.


	7. Chapter 7

Elia

 

She hadn’t understood, before the battle for Casterly Rock, what her mother, Meria, and her sisters had been shielding her from. She had thought that they were afraid she’d fail, or that that they worried she wasn’t skilled enough to survive. She didn’t doubt that that was part of it, but she’d never guessed how much more there was besides death death an injury to be protected from.

Like the sound of war, for one thing. She’d heard the echoes of shouts and neighing horses from her place watching over Joana in the supply caravans.  The disturbing noises had put her one-year-old charge on edge, causing her to squirm and look up at Elia with alarm in her stunning blue rimmed grey eyes. But that had only been the sounds loud enough to carry over the half mile stretch of country that separated her and Joana from the vanguard. When you were in the thick of battle though there were other sounds, softer sounds, that were more terrifying that the shouts could ever be. The gurgling gasp of a man struggling to breathe as his lungs filled with blood, the whimpering pleas of boys who know they’re about to die, the crunch of bone breaking beneath a mace. Soft sounds. Haunting sounds. Elia could live a hundred years and never want to hear those sounds again.

But as she followed her mother through the fray she realized that for Ellaria Sand, the sounds had faded into white noise a long time ago. Her mother was fierce and fearless, fighting her way through oncoming soldiers with a tenacious rage that Elia hadn’t seen since the weeks following her father’s death. She fought differently from Meria, who had been with them at the beginning of the day. Meria fought without rage, without passion. Death was a dance to her, and she was the picture of ruthless grace as she cut through her opponents like butter. But Obara had called for Meria to help on the flank, and Ellaria had refused to let Elia go with her.  They had parted ways then, so that now she was alone in the mother’s care, fighting her way through a sea hysteria.

She’d thought, before the battle, that soldiers would know if their armies were winning or losing while the fight was taking place. Perhaps the Men of Dorne and the Lannister soldiers were particularly well matched, and that was why no clear victor seemed to emerge through the course of the day. More likely both groups of men were too fiercely stubborn to know when they were beaten. Either way, it seemed like no end was in sight, like for every man felled by a Dornish Blade, there was another lying face down in the blood and the dirt with a Lannister arrow through his neck.  

She'd thought there was nothing more terrifying than the horrible monotony of death and struggle surrounding her, until she heard her mother’s name shouted through the air, rising over the din.

“Ellaria!” the man shouted the name like a curse, ringing with rage and accusation. She turned to see a blonde man, middle aged but still beautiful except for the look of utter hatred in his eyes, charging towards them. His armor was guilt in gold, a roaring lion emblazoned on his chest. In the place where his right hand should have been was a bronze fist welded around the hilt of a broad sword. In his other hand was a parrying dagger, deadly sharp and light for speedy kills. Both weapons were soaked with blood. For a man without a hand, Jamie Lannister seemed remarkably deadly. And Elia was standing directly between him and her mother.

“Kingslayer!” She heard her mother call out from behind her, her voice filled with disdain but with an unmistakable note of panic underneath her haughty shout. Ellaria had noticed their positioning too. “Come fight me then, if you think the new hand your sister made you can withstand the fight!”

He charged, and Elia moved out of the way, slashing the Lannister man following on his heels in the thigh before he got the chance to make the fight two on one. He collapsed with a grunt, turning over onto his back and thrusting his sword up at her from the ground in a swift counter attack. It wasn’t quick enough though, and she knocked the blow away with ease, driving her sword point through his exposed throat and trying desperately to ignore the sound of his blood-choked wheeze as he breathed his last. She whipped around to see her mother locked in combat with Jamie Lannister, going blow to blow with the ferocious man, who showed no signs of tiring.

“She. Was. Just. A. Child.” He bellowed, aiming heavy blows at her mother with every word.

"A debt was owed! Your foolish sister-lover should have known that when she sent her to live among us!"

He bellowed in rage, and the tempo of his attack increased.Though she managed to parry each one, the force of the blows shook Ellaria's arms again and again. Elia realized with horror that this was a fight her mother was going to lose. Jamie Lannister was a blaze of terrifying, vengeful rage.  Not for the first time, she wished her mother had not killed Myrcella Baratheon. A second later, Jamie brought down a powerful overhand blow aiming for Ellaria’s shoulder. Though she parried in time, she stumbled backwards with the force of it, almost losing her footing altogether and before she could stop herself Elia shrieked.

“Mother!”

Jamie Lannister whipped around, his blue eyes locking on her and narrowing triumphantly.

“How fitting! I knew Oberyn used you like a brood mare, but I hadn’t dared to hope one of your sand sluts would be with you when I found you. And one so young too! Shall I show you then, Ellaria? Shall I show you what if feels like to sit by helplessly as your daughter is killed in front of you?” As he spoke he began to stride towards her, cold menace in his eyes. Her mother rushed up behind him screaming.

“NO! Elia, run! Don’t look ba—“

She was cut off as he spun back around and brought his left hand up with in one swift, deadly move, burying his dagger up to the hilt in her soft flesh below her breastbone.

“NO!!!” Elia was screaming but she couldn’t hear – not her own voice, not the horrible sounds of war that had been plaguing her mind since the beginning of the battle hours before. There was no room for sound, no room for anything but the overwhelming horror of watching her mother crumble to the ground, the fierce light of life already gone from her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :'( writing this chapter was very sad for me, so I'm sorry if its rough for any of you guys too! I promise more soon, and I'm sorry its short, I just figured Ellaria's death deserved its own pause.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry its been so so long since I updated! This semester has been crazy and things are just now calming down. I should have more out soon, please let me know what you think!!!

Arya

 

She’d been making her way back across the field when she heard Elia scream.

“Mother!”

The sound had made Arya take off sprinting through the thicket of fighting men and bodies that separated her from the sound of Elia’s voice.

Let them be alright. Let them both be alright.

She ducked to dodge an overhead blow meant to catch her off guard and rounded a corner, just in time to see Ellaria Sand drop to the ground, with Jamie Lannister’s dragger lodged in her chest. The sight of it hit her like a physical blow to the chest. She’d forgotten what it felt like, real emotional anguish, in her years in the House of White and Black. She’d rediscovered love in her year as a mother, she had re-familiarized herself with affection, hopefulness, and worry. But this, this was the first time she had felt rage, white hot rage that burned out from her chest and made her feel as if she couldn’t keep it in, since the death of Jon Snow.

Elia’s anguished cry could be heard above the noise of the men fighting around her as she lunged at Jaime, striking out at his weak side. Arya’s heart was in her throat as she ran, trying to close the distance between herself and the fighting pair before it was too late. She’d just lost the closest thing to a parent she’d had in seven years. She wasn’t about to lose a sister too.

Jaime Lannister wasn’t on the attack though. His movements were guarded and his face was wary, but as she watched them fight she could tell he wasn’t taking all of the opportunities her fighting presented.

“My fight is not with you, girl. Leave, go and find your sisters and tell them all to get the hell back to Dorne.”

“YOU MURDERED HER!” Elia shrieked, tears streaming down her face. Arya was close now, just five more yards. Jaime parried Elia’s blow and knocked her to the ground, and Arya saw red. But he didn’t strike the killing blow, instead he just shouted “Get out of here, or by the Gods you’ll leave me no choice! I don’t want to fight you!”

“Jaime Lannister!” Arya shouted, poised just feet away now ready to dive between them if necessary, “you’ll want to fight me.”

The older man looked at her, eyebrow cocked as Elia scrambled to her feet. Arya moved closer, putting herself in between the young Sand Snake and the Kingslayer, eyes locked on Jaime in challenge as she did. He narrowed his curiously, appraising her as he did.

“Do I know you?” he asked, his voice somewhere in between disdain and curiosity. “You look familiar, but there are so many people who want me dead you see that it’s terribly difficult to keep track.”

Her lips turned up in an amused smirk. “You knew me once, but a man forgets. I was a girl then.”

Her voice was a steely and dangerous as she circled him with a hint of half amused challenge that caused Jaime Lannister to cock his head in curiosity. It was a voice she hadn’t heard from herself in a long time, not since Ser Merryn. It was the same voice she’d used for years to recite lists of the lives she would take to avenge her father, her teacher, her brother… herself. It was a voice that haunted her thoughts in her more introspective moments, that made her wonder if there was something truly, truly wrong with her. It was the voice she used when she was anticipating a kill – and looking forward to _enjoying_ it. It was wrong, but she pushed any feeling of guilt out of her mind as the man in front of her wiped Ellaria’s still-warm blood off his dagger, and continued.

“You will know me again though, Kingslayer. Mine will be the last face you see.”

And with that she lunged and Jaime Lannister barely had time to lift his blade swept across his neck. His parry came in time though and her blade bounced back. A different fighter would have been thrown off balance by the force of his parry, but Arya was used to fighting stronger men. Instead of trying to absorb the shock of his blows she bent with them, using his strength to force her own attack.

“You’re good,” Jamie said, after she deflected his fourth attack. “Far better than the average little chit who challenges me, I’ll give you that. It will be a shame to kill you when you show so much promise. Now why don’t you run along? Tell you what, I’ve got a soft spot for women in armor, so you can even tell your merry band of knight-ettes that you bested me in a fight.”

Arya smirked. Now was the time to use her identity to throw Lannister off his stride, even if just for a second. She hoped that her hunch would pay off, that the dreams she’d had during her months of darkness over two years ago were accurate. A second would be all she would need.

“You’ve changed Jamie Lannister…” she said, lunging towards his flank and then falling back slightly, teasing him and keeping him on his toes while she set her trap.

When her eyes had been taken she’d begun to see images in the dark. Most of them had to do with Jon – Jon as Ghost, prowling the frozen tundra of the North, trailing what she could only imagine was the Wall. But there were other snippets as well – images and thoughts which at first she believed were simply the creation of her under-stimulated mind. Scenes of chasing Shaggydog around a castle with a round-faced wildling women trailing behind. Flashes of Winterfell, stripped of its warmth and stinking of blood and fear. And memories. Memories of hiding as the burned corpses of two boys were hoisted up above the gates of Winterfell. And one memory in particular, of Jamie Lannister, embracing his sister before a push and a long sickening fall to the ground.

She had no way of knowing if the memory was real, but she felt sure in her strategy all the same as she sneered and leaned into her parry drawing close to him and saying in a mocking voice. “Letting the young ones go. That’s quite a change from the man who threw my brother from the tower at Winterfell when he was still a child of ten.”

His step faltered momentarily as he looked at her in bewilderment and she struck, driving her parrying dagger into the break in his armor underneath his raised arm and twisting. He knocked her back howling and she had to stagger to remain on her feet. It wasn’t a fatal blow, not by a long shot, but it would weaken his sword arm substantially and confine his movements to defensive parries.

She could tell from the way he rearranged his stance that he knew as much, but the shocked look he gave her had more to do with her words than with her crippling blow.

“Stark?” he asked incredulously, “Are you Arya Stark?”

She felt a pang of regret for not having told Elia sooner. The girl was watching them fight not ten feet away, and out of the corner of her eye Arya could see her tear-filled eyes widen in surprise. Elia had heard Arya’s proclamation during Joana’s birth of course, but she’d clearly not come to the same conclusion that her mother had. She hated for her friend to find out this way, but there was no other choice.

“I am.” She said, lunging again and swiveling at the last minute. In his injured state Jamie leaned too heavily into the parry that never came, and she was able to catch him again, slicing deeply into his hamstring. With a cry he fell to his knees. In a second she was before him, her blade at his throat, his death an obvious certainty hanging in the air between them. To her surprise, he looked more amused than anything, giving her a pained but good nature lopsided grin that still managed to look cavalier despite the blood and dirt that covered his face.

“And to think your mother thought you were in need of my protection. She would be proud if she saw you now, though no doubt she’d be distressed to think how you got this way. It’s funny, it’s been so long since I made a promise to your mother to help you that I’d forgotten that we were supposed to be enemies. These wars have made it awfully difficult to keep track.”

It wasn’t a plea for mercy, just a simple statement. And yet she felt all of the hatred that had driven her during the fight melt away. She was clam and at peace, despite the carnage that raged around her, as she leaned forward, drew her blade across the Kingslayer’s throat and whispered as if speaking a prayer.

“But still the North Remembers. Valar Morghulis, Jaime Lannister.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for everyone's comments yesterday! I love this story and I'm so happy I finally have the time to be getting back to it. Things are about to move in a different direction after this chapter, so I hope you like it!!

Aegon

 

Aegon Targaryen was not pleased. First, his brother, who continues to be almost indifferent towards him, had won all the glory of the battle of Kings Landing and had chosen Gendry – their Aunt’s bastard lover as his companion in the venture. What did it matter that Aegon had been attacking a different part of the city at the time? It would’ve only taken moments for Jon to fly over. But instead he’d gone with the Baratheon Bastard over his own kin.

Then to make matters worse by the time he’d reached Casterly Rock the Dornish were already making battle. True, the day had not yet been won, and he and Rhaegal had been hailed by the men as they soared over head and began attacking the Rock’s outer ramparts, but Aegon still felt like once again he’d missed his opportunity for some of his glory in battle.

And this battle, of all the battles, he needed to lead. And he needed to win. This was the battle, this was the day when he would finally make the Lannisters pay for their betrayal of his father. He would burn them from the parapets of their own home, terrorizing the Lannister as the women and children of Casterly Rock ran in fear. But he would show them no quarter – just as they had given no quarter to his mother and sister. And when he was done slaughtering the people of the Rock, then and only then would he fight the Kingslayer.

He circled around again, swooping and catching three of the archers with his billhook as Rhaegal sent a torrent of flames into a gathering of men standing guard over the portcullis. Satisfied with the pass he leaned into his mount to direct Rhaegal around to the south gate when something in the field of battle below caught his eye. In one quadrant of the field the men of Casterly Rock had put down their weapons and were being herded into a group by the Dornishmen. More and more Lannisters were joining in the surrender with little resistance, though few of them were glancing up at him as they did it. What the bloody hell was this about?

Aggravated, he pulled Rhaegal around, turning sharply in the air, and swooped down low over the captured men. He smirked to himself as they began to shrink in terror, some crying out and falling to their knees under the shadow of Rhaegal’s emerald green hide. Though he’d seen such reactions hundreds of times they never failed to bring him a sense of smug satisfaction. The men of Westeros should tremble at the sight of him, should fall to their knees before their Targaryen rulers and stay there. He signaled to Rhaegal to land when he saw his cousin Obara, taking accepting the sword from one of the Lannister commanders.

“Obara!” He called out, and she came to him at once, fearlessly walking up to Rhaegal’s flank as he slid from his saddle.

“Yes my prince?”

“What is going on?”

“The Lannisters are surrendering my lord. The Kingslayer is dead.”

For a second he was too stunned to speak. Rage, white hot and overwhelming overtook him. He could not speak, he could not think. The Kingslayer’s life had been his to take. Now he would never have the satisfaction of looking Jaime Lannister in the eye as he killed his sister and their incestuous bastard pretender to the throne in front of him.

“Who- who has done this,” his voice was deadly calm, each word measured but infused with the unmistakable promise of violence.

“My lord, my prince, please,” his fierce cousin looked at him with alarm. He hoped it wasn’t her, he liked the sand snakes and it would be a shame to have to kill the eldest of them for her insolence. Still, this slight could not be borne. Someone had to pay for taking this from him.

“Who, Obara.”

She locked eyes with him a look of incredulity on her face momentarily but it only fueled his anger. He widened his eyes in fury, daring her to give him an excuse with his raging purple eyes. She must have seen the challenge in his eyes because she dropped her gaze at once. When she spoke, her tone was pleading and subdued.

“My lord she is one of our companions. Please Aegon, she stepped in to save our sister after Lannister killed Ellaria, please…”

He felt a momentary twinge at the sound of distress in his brave cousin’s voice, but he would not be swayed in this.

“Her name, Obara.”

“Meria… Meria Snow.”

He almost felt bad for the girl. With no family to worry about offending nothing could save her from his rage.

“Where is she?”

“She went back to the caravan, with Elia but please Aegon I am begging you—“

He ignored Obara and turned abruptly and remounted Rhaegal. Whatever else the Sand Snake had to say was lost as he spurred Rhaegal in the side too hard in his anger and the dragon let out a screech in protest before launching into the air.

Bastard or not, the girl should have had the sense to know that the Kingslayer’s life was his to take. For her impudence, she would have to pay.

 

Elia

 

The trip back to the caravan after Meria had killed Jamie Lannister had been a blur. No, not Meria she had to remind herself. _Arya_ , Arya Stark. She knew it was important, but right now she just couldn’t be bothered to care about that or anything else besides the overwhelming pain of the loss of her mother.

Everything seemed to fade into nothingness as she let that ugly truth sink in. The sounds of battle which had been so disturbing to her before hardly fazed her now as they wove through the maze of interlocking bodies. More than once Arya had to step in and block a blow aimed for her as they walked. On the third such instance, her teacher and friend had slapped her hard across the face, forcing Elia to look into her stormy grey eyes.

“It hurts. I know. It will keep hurting for a long time. I cannot tell you when it will stop. But I can tell you that your mother would not want you to let the pain distract you from staying alive, and so right now you must work through the pain and follow me, alright?”

She had nodded, and began to pay slightly more attention to her surroundings as they moved through the fray until finally they were free of the fighting bodies and heading up the hill to where their caravans were. Around them, injured men staggered up in search of the maesters and septas who travelled with them tending to the wounded. Meria walked briskly and silently through them all, taking Elia by the hand now that they were beyond danger and pulling her along in the direction of Joana’s tent.

When they got there the thirteen-month old gave a gurgle of delight at the sight of them and reached for her mother. Meria swept the baby into her arms, oblivious to the blood and grime covering her clothes. Elia felt a pang in her chest, a momentary urge to hold the infant, to be close to something as pure and uncorrupted as Arya’s grey-eyed daughter. As if sensing her yearning Arya handed the squirming toddler over to Elia. Joana went happily, reaching out her pudgy little arms and grasping onto Elia’s shoulder. She hugged the child to her, closing her eyes and inhaling the calming sent of Joana’s clean dark hair. When she opened her eyes Arya was there, understanding etched across the face.

“Come,” she said quietly, leading them out of the tent. Elia did, following her mentor into a small clearing shielded from the activity of the camp by a thick hedge. When they got to the clearing Arya sat on a mossy knee-high stone and began to undo her jerkin, preparing to feed Joana. The mundane familiarity of it all felt almost jarring when compared to the events of two hours before. Elia wasn’t ready to talk about her mother yet, so instead she sat in front of her friend and mentor and looked her in the eyes.

“Who is Arya Stark?” She asked, her voice steady. She’d remembered Meria christening Joana a Stark at her birth, but at the time she’d never assumed that her friend was a Stark herself. She’d assumed, as her older sisters did, that someone who bore the Stark name (or claimed to) had been the father. She’d heard Obara and Tyene talking once about how Meria had probably been deceived by some Northern bannerman pretending to be one of the legendary Starks. At the time she’d felt pity for her friend, who she’d assumed hadn’t had as much experience with the sly highborn men to know when she was being played. Well the more fool her.

The older woman sighed, taking the toddler and putting her to her breast before looking back over at Elia.

“She is the youngest daughter of the late Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. She was the sister of Robb Stark, King of the North, before he was brutally slain at the Twins. She has been presumed dead since the day her father was killed eight years ago.”

Elia’s eyes widened at that.

“Does that make you the heir to the North?”

Arya looked down. “I don’t know. I have three siblings who should come before me in line, but I don’t yet know if any of them remain alive.”

Elia nodded and looked down. She wasn’t sure what to say to that. Any other day this revelation would have been huge, but with her mother gone she just couldn’t find it in herself to get worked up, even if she was sitting feet away from the likely Queen of the North.

“Elia… there’s something else I need to discuss with you.”

“Hmmm?”

“With what happened today… it might be time for me to leave. I cannot risk being found out for who I am – not when I am so far from my own people, not when some Queen I know nothing about might see me as a nothing more than an opportunity to forge alliances through marriage. For Joana’s sake, I must get to the North. Your mother…” Arya paused and composed herself for a second before going on, “your mother asked me before we left Dorne if I would take you with me when I left. The choice is yours, I won’t force you either way, and I cannot tell you what awaits us, but if you want to come I’d be grateful for your company.”

“You’re just going to leave? Why not return to Dorne? How can you expect me to be parted with my sisters now that our mother—“ Elia began to say in a flurry of anxious thought, springing to her feet. But before she could finish her words died in her throat as a screeching noise of some ungodly creature came from beyond the clearing. She whipped around, drawing her still battle-stained weapon and moving into a fighting stance as Arya rose to her feet behind her, drawing Needle with Joana still clutched to her breast.

 

Aegon

 

As he made his way into the clearing that the terrified maid had pointed to Aegon steeled himself to confront the woman who had stolen his glory. When he thought back on it later he couldn’t quite put his finger on what sort of a woman he’d been expecting to see, but whatever his assumption had been the Meria Snow he saw was far from it.

He’d rounded the hedge to see a lengthy swarthy teenage girl, crouched low in a water dancer’s stance with her blade drawn. This had to be one of Obara’s younger sisters – the one named for his mother on whose behalf Snow had killed the Kingslayer. She stared at him in surprise but still did not lower her weapon. He almost had to smile at that – his cheeky Dornish cousins, always so indifferent to decorum. He regretted that they would have to meet this way.

But then his eyes flicked past the girl and his heart nearly stopped in his chest. Standing behind the Sand snake was a dark-haired woman – slight but strongly built with more than enough feminine curves to tempt a man to sin. In one hand she clutched a babe to her bare, cream colored breast. In the other she held her sword at the ready – still stained with the blood of Jamie Lannister – the most famed night in Westeros. Her grey eyes burned into him over set brows, promising violence if he took a step closer.

Seven help him who was this woman? She looked like a Goddess from a faith much older and more primal than his own. A matriarch of war, breastfeeding on the battlefield with the blood of her enemies still fresh upon her clothes. He’d never been so stunned upon meeting any person in his life, not his Aunt whose features matched his with an eerie perfection, nor his brother whose existence he hadn’t truly believed until he’d landed in front of him. No this woman, she bewitched him, body and soul.

“Can I help you, sir?” she said, her voice wary but respectful. She clearly knew who he was, and would not move to anger him, though her face showed that she was none too pleased with the interruption. She turned from his slightly, detaching the child from her breast and deftly tying up her chemise with one hand, though her jerkin remained unlaced invitingly.

He shook himself slightly, reminding himself why he was there, and straightened, fixing her with what he hoped was his most regal and intimidating gaze.

“Is it true, that you took it upon yourself to kill the Kingslayer?”

She gave a delicate half-shrug, and set the child in her arms down on the ground beside her.

“Yes, it is true.”

“And where you aware, madam of the injury that Jamie Lannister had done to my family?”

“I was, yes my liege, and so I stepped in before he could do any more.”

It was a fair answer, but a cheeky one coming from a Northern Bastard speaking to a prince. He’d already decided though that he wouldn’t be killing this woman after all. No, from the moment he locked eyes on her all thoughts of violence had faded. All he could think of now was bending her over the boulder she was hovering behind and fucking her until she screamed his name. He smiled to himself, he was a kind and just ruler, and so he would allow Meria Snow to do her penance on her back… or better yet, on her knees, with those silver-grey eyes staring up at him in supplication. His cock jumped at the thought.

He closed the distance between them in one stride, and pulled her against him.

“Well, my girl that was quite presumptuous of you, though I am grateful to you for saving my cousin. Still, you’ve a debt to be paid, for taking the Kingslayer’s life when it belonged to your betters. My cousin will watch your babe, but now you must come with—“

Something struck him in the back of the head, and the world around him fell into darkness.

When he awoke, the sun had dipped low in the sky. He tore out of the clearing and called for a search of the entire encampment but it was to no avail. The women were gone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!!! Thanks for all the feedback! I really really appreciate it, though it looks like I'm going to have to end up disappointing someone! Still I hope you guys like where this chapter is going and where the rest of the story ends up going! Just don't be upset if there's drama... (hint - there's going to be drama).

 

Jon

 

As he padded along in the semi-darkness he found himself marveling at how accustomed to life in at the Wall he had become over the years. If someone had asked him, he never would have said that the place felt homey, or even comfortable, and yet after his weeks in the Capital he found these nightly excursions to be a blessing – both for staying on top of the situation with the white walkers and for keeping a sense of homesickness at bay.

True, when he slept he only saw the world through Ghost’s eyes – without many of the details or meaningful interactions that his own human form would have afforded him, but it was still far better than nothing. Not only was he able to see his men going about their duties on the wall, but he found that he drew strength and patience from the calming monotony of his nightly forays, from the crunch of snow beneath his feet and the familiar cold stinging in his nose. They were not nice feelings, but they were what he was used to, and in these uncertain times he was grateful for them.

Which made him all the surlier as he felt himself being tugged away from his icy solace by someone calling him back to King’s Landing. Leaving a warg prematurely was a disorienting experience, and it took him a moment before he realized he was back in the four-poster be he’d been given in the Red Keep, being shaken awake by one of Daenerys’ unsullied.

“Azor Ahai, the Mother of Dragons requests your presence…” the young man said, bowing low as Jon sat up and looked around the chamber.

“For the hundredth time, its Jon,” he mumbled throwing off the covers and swinging his legs out of bed.

“Yes, your grace,” the Unsullied said, bowing low again and backing away as Jon walked over to the dresser and grabbed a shirt. Although Winter had come, even for the people of Kings Landing, for Jon the Red Keep was still stifling compared to home, and he’d taken to sleeping in nothing but light linen breeches. As he pulled the shirt on over his torso, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over that had been set out for him over his wash basin.

Looking at his reflection, Jon couldn’t really blame his aunt’s messenger for refusing to use his given name. Even in the dim light of the chamber, you could plainly see the silvery lines of dozens of stab wounds crisscrossing his pale abdomen. His death sentence had been carved into his skin, and yet here he stood, brooding at being awoken so suddenly but otherwise very much alive and well. The wounds hadn’t even handicapped his fighting abilities, though sometimes at night he woke to the pain of a dozen steel blades piercing his gut again, with nothing to distract him from his agony but the sound of his own screams echoing through the darkness.

But Jon knew the truth – he was no God. He was an abomination.

“Your Grace…”

The Unsullied’s timid voice tore him away from his ark musings.

“The Mother of Dragons, she awaits your presence.”

“Yes. Yes, I’m coming. Thank you.” He mumbled, pulling on his boots and following the young eunuch out of the chamber.

Despite the lateness of the hour he found Daenerys in the throne room, attended by Tyrion and Jorah Mormont. Gendry was nowhere to be seen which disappointed Jon. He’d grown closer and closer with the Bastard son of Robert Baratheon during his time in King’s Landing. He suspected it was due to the fact that both of them went through their days with the assumption that at any moment someone would come up, tap them on the shoulder, and ask them what the hell they thought they were doing presuming to have authority around so many of their betters. Once the battle was done Gendry had dealt with this fear by reverting as much as possible to his comfort zone – aiding with the rebuilding of King’s Landing by melting down the weapons of the Baratheon troops and forging everything from spades to drain pipes.

While Jon had won the glory of the battle, it was Gendry who was capturing the allegiance of the people of King’s Landing for the Targaryen cause. His absence from this meeting then, meant that Daenerys had called Jon there to discuss something that had nothing to do with the capital. Perhaps it was time at last for him to return to the Wall to secure it once and for all from the threat of the White Walkers.

One look at his Aunt’s face, and he knew that wasn’t the case.

“Thank you for coming Nephew. We apologize for waking you at this hour.”

Formality. Daenerys wanted something then, something he likely wasn’t going to enjoy giving.

“Aunt. How may I be of service?”

“We need you to go to Casterly Rock.”

He raised his eyebrows at that. Last he’d heard the missive from Obara Sand had said that the campaign against the Rock was going well – and that message had been sent before Aegon arrived with Rhaegal. Besides, they’d intentionally kept Jon away from dealings with the Dornish to keep from offending them. Unlike Aegon, who was first cousins with all of the Sand Snakes, Jon was the product of the adulterous union that had not only shamed their Aunt but had also caused her rape and murder. Daenerys had asked him to give the Dornish as wide a berth as possible to avoid any offense, and Jon had been happy to oblige. He could only think of one reason why they’d change strategy so drastically.

“Has Aegon been hurt?”

His aunt shook her head. “No, it’s nothing like that, though we have received word that Ellaria Sand has been slain. Still Obara is more than capable of managing the Dornish troops.”

“Is the Rock really that impregnable? Surely its too early to know that they won’t surrender. Its been less than a week—“

“They already have surrendered. Well, some of them at least, the rest will not. Not after what Aegon’s done to those who have,” Tyrion said bitterly.

“What has he done?”

“He’s been feeding them to Rheagal. Leaders and foot soldiers alike. He’s told them he’ll accept nothing but an unconditional surrender, and he’s somehow managed to strain relations with his own kin – something about a fencing instructor and their youngest sister going missing. He’s also managed to create a truly gruesome spectacle of my brother’s body, just for good measure.” The hatred in Tyrion’s voice was unmistakable.

Jon felt his blood boiling at the words. Jamie Lannister was no friend of his, but he knew well enough the pain of having a brother’s body desecrated for other’s sick amusement. It was no way to forge peace, particularly not with a house whose motto explicitly promised retribution.

“I am aware of the peace you were able to forge with the Wildlings,” Dany said, fixing him with her purple-eyed gaze, “If you could lend assistance in this…”

“Consider it done.”

As he flew in low over the Dornish encampment outside of Casterly Rock Jon couldn’t help but feel a little self-conscious. Being inconspicuous while riding a dragon is impossible – and for every face that turned up and stared at him in awe Jon knew it was that much more likely that the commanders had heard of his arrival. Daenerys had told him that the Dornish and Aegon were not getting along, but Jon knew there was a very decent chance that they would be united in feeling that his presence was unnecessary and unwelcome.

Still, now was not the time to let his embarrassment over his bastardy get to him. The issue with the Lannisters needed to be settled swiftly and decisively. And so it was with steely resolve that he landed in front of the encampment next to a resting Rhaegal. He left the two dragons to greet each other in their own way, and turned to see a tough looking woman in full battle gear walked towards him with a determined look on her face. Though she was far from ugly, she seemed the type of woman who had no time for the pettiness of beauty, and her dark black hair was tied away from her caramel colored face efficiently in a tight bun. Behind her, a younger woman who could only be her sister stood, leading against a post. Though the younger woman’s hair was cropped short, she exuded a very different aura than the woman who had stepped forward, her body gracefully arched in a way that exuded effortless sex appeal; her head cocked at Jon inquisitively. He realized from her expression she was probably curious about how he, the third of the mysterious Targaryens, looked and feeling slightly abashed he removed the helm he’d been wearing for the flight.

While he was used to people looking surprised at the sight of his dark brown curls (a far cry from his family’s typical slivery smooth lochs) he was taken aback by Obara’s reaction. Though she was a woman who clearly had excellent control over her features, she stopped in her tracks momentarily – her eyes widening in surprise. Behind her, the sister that had been leaning casually against a post stood up and took a step forward, her body tense and alert. Had they been expecting someone else?

“My Prince, Welcome.” Obara said formally, her face once again an impeccable mask as she dipped into a bow.”

“Thank you, general,” Jon said, giving her a formal nod in recognition of her deference. “Our Queen has sent me to appraise the progress which has been made, and to try to see if we can come to a resolution of our conflict with the Lannisters as quickly as possible.”

She nodded, understanding the message hidden in his seemingly neutral words.

“Would you like to visit with your brother privately before we convene a meeting of the Commanders? Or should I have my men gather at once?”

“A private meeting with Aegon first might serve best,” he said gruffly, following the woman through the camp to his brother’s tent.

It went worse than expected. Aegon was livid that Daenerys had sent him, and even more enraged that Jon was planning on directly contradicting his current decree of accepting nothing but an unconditional surrender. Privately, Jon was worried that his brother was suffering from some of the same madness which had plagued their grandfather.

Rather than focusing on their conversation about the campaign against the Lannisters he kept going back to his fury that the woman who’d killed Jaime Lannister – Meria Snow or some such person – had not yet been found. According to Aegon, the woman, who was a companion of the Sand Snakes, had attacked him when he was speaking to her about Jamie Lannister’s demise, and had fled while he was unconscious with Oberyn’s youngest fighting-age daughter Elia.

Jon had seen his brother around women enough to have a fairly good notion of what “speaking to her about Jamie Lannister” had really entailed, and was therefore not as surprised as Aegon at the Sand Snakes refusal to assist him in the search for their wayward companion. If he was being completely honest with himself he was more than a little impressed with the accounts he’d heard of this mysterious weapons instructor, but still he understood that a commander could not simply be attacked by one of their troops without some action being taken. And so he promised to assist Aegon with the search for this woman, and promised that when she was found he’d see to it personally that she was properly court marshalled (that was far from what Aegon wanted, but Jon would be damned if he helped his brother met out his own twisted version of justice). Aegon – who apparently had gotten absolutely no inkling of support in his search for the woman thus far – seemed to feel vindicated by Jon’s commitment, and eventually agreed to come to attend the council meeting Obara had called.

The meeting was far from friendly but eventually they were able to hammer out a plan for parlaying with the Lannisters and trying to garner a surrender. With Jon there the pressure to broker a peace was raised on both sides – Aegon could no longer act with impunity and the Lannisters could have no hope of holding out against the onslaught of two Dragon Riders. Finally after hours of back and forth they settled on the terms – Tommen and Queen Cersei would be surrendered into the custody of Obara Sand and the Dornish Army. One in every three Lannister fighting men would immediately set forth for the Wall – where they would join Jon in the fight against the White Walkers. The Mountain, and all of the members of the King’s Guard who had abandoned the Targaryen’s would be Aegon’s to dispose of as he willed.

Not thrilled, but far from distraught at the outcome of the meeting Jon made his way wearily back to the tent he’d been given as the meeting let out – mind already focused on the events of tomorrow. Had he not been so used to living in a state of paranoia (justified paranoia given the assassination he had endured) he wouldn’t have heard the light footsteps at all. As it was, it took him a second to realize that they hadn’t simply been in his head. But no, there they were, soft but sure, pattering after him under cover of night.

He strayed away from the camp, walking into the woods as if he planned on relieving himself. Sure enough, the soft tapping of feet on packed earth continued. He glanced around, then seeing nothing quickly took a turn to the right and then quickly ducked behind a tree.

Sure enough moments later, a slight figure came creeping softly around the bend. He lunged, dragging his tracker by their jerkin against the a tree trunk and drawing his knife in one fluid movement. The tracker, to their credit, also had a blade out before he had a chance to realize they’d made any defensive mores at all, and he found himself gazing into angry almond-shaped brown eyes with the all-too-familiar prick of cold steel against his neck.

It was the younger Sand Snake – Tyene. Throughout the war council her eyes had remained locked on him, like a hawk examining its prey. He had no idea why the younger of the Sand Snakes – who hadn’t even been alive when his father had betrayed her kinswoman – should take such offense to his presence when it was clear her older sisters were appreciative of his help. Yet here they were. He was about to give her a piece of his mind when she spoke.

“Who are you.” She said, her voice deep and full of purpose.

Whatever he’d been expecting to hear that wasn’t it. Wasn’t that exactly why she was here? Because she resented him for his damning parentage?

“What?!” he said in surprise. “I am Jon Targaryen. Prince of Westeros, and your commander in this camp.”

She shrugged a delicate shoulder, as if what he was saying was boring her.

“But you weren’t always. No one but Daenerys was always a Targaryen, at least not anyone raised in the Seven Kingdoms. So who _were_ you, before you were a Targaryen?”

So his story had not spread as far as he’d thought. He was relieved to learn it, but in no rush to hurry the spread along.

“And why in Seven Hells should I tell you?”

“Because I recognize your face.”

He lowered his weapon and peered at her. He was wary of Tyene – he’d never known what to make of women like her, with their flirtatious sing-songy voices and they thinly veiled secrets. They had floored him during his years at Winterfell, and his time at the wall had not made him any better equipped to know how to handle himself in their presence. He really couldn’t tell what she was hinting at, or even if she was just toying with him all together, but something in his mind made his heartrate quicken as if something important was on the cusp of being revealed.

“What do you mean?”

She smiled, but ignored him, instead repeating, “who were you?”

Jon, unwilling to give up his whole past but intrigued by what Tyene clearly had to say, decided to go with a partial truth.

“I was a Nights Watchmen.”

Tyene sighed, and looked him as if she were exasperated with him, and then pushed herself off the tree where he’d pinned her, sliding past him and moving back towards the camp.

“My mistake. I am sorry for troubling you. You look like... but no, you’re clearly not who I am looking for.”

For some reason, he felt an acute sense of loss at her ending the conversation.

“Wait!” he called, his voice more passionate than he’d meant it to be. Still there was something, something making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, screaming to him from his subconscious that he should not let her walk away without telling him why she’d come.

She turned and looked at him curiously.

“Please. Tell me who you are looking for. I promise you, if I can, I will help.”

She gazed at him again, and then abruptly strode back towards him and looked him straight in the eyes, with something between curiosity and pleading in her eyes.

"It's not me who is looking, it's my friend.”

“I understand.”

“She's not looking for Nights Watchmen."

He let out an exasperated huff.

“I am more than a Nights watchman."

"She's not looking for Targaryens either..."

She looked at him purposefully as if he were supposed to make something of this, but he had nothing.  Frustrated, he took hold of her shoulders and turned her to look straight into his eyes.

"Tyene please, who is she looking for?"

She sighed, and reached up a hand, brushing his hair away from his face with an almost wishful look in her eyes, before shifting her gaze back to him and saying in a hushed voice.

“She's looking for Starks.”


	11. Chapter 11

Arya

 

She’d started picking her nails again, which meant that she was nervous. She would’ve been amused by it, amused by how much she had transitioned out of her time as no one where not even a knife at her throat could’ve made her bat an eyelash. Having something again made it impossible to go back, though so she supposed she would just have to remember how to work with the nerves. She’d managed it as a child of eleven, she could damn well manage it now.

They’d been on the road – or rather _near_ the road, they couldn’t be on it for fear of discovery – for over four weeks now. At first they had remained hidden, moving only at night to avoid the regular overhead forays of Aegon on his emerald green dragon. If she had known how obsessively he’d look for her after she slighted him she would’ve just killed him then and there. She had considered it at the time, but something about his face, the curve of his nose, the fullness of his lips, had felt so familiar that when she looked down at him passed out at her feet any thought of harming him further had immediately left her.

 _You’re going soft._ She couldn’t help berating herself over and over as the heir to the thrown soared over their various hiding places during the first few days. She’d been extra cautious – even going so far as to unsaddle the horses and let them wander so their Dornish saddles and bridles were hidden from view. But still, she hadn’t been truly worried until the second dragon had joined the search. This cream-colored dragon and his mysterious black rider were far more methodical that Aegon, and seemed to be scanning the terrain with the precision of a practiced hunter.

While she knew the Targaryen’s couldn’t be thrilled that Aegon had been accosted, she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why they were wasting two of their precious dragon riders on searching the roads North of Casterly Rock. She even began wondering if Tommen and Cersei had escaped the siege – but then surely the search would be more consistent? And at least some ground troops would have been sent North? No – something about the way they were searching – at the beginning or end of each day - made her feel as if they were almost sneaking out to do it. And something in her core made her know that they were searching for them.

So they hid, her Elia and Joana, and moved cautiously until they reached River Run. There she’d had a decision to make – whether to trust her Uncle Edmure, who’d only been returned to his seat at Riverrun after swearing fealty to Walder Frey (the turncoat bastard who’d killed her brother and mother) – or to continue on North to try to find a way to settle closer to her ancestral home. Unlce Edmure would likely welcome her in, but how he’d react to Joana remained to be seen. Most likely he’d have her given to a servant to raise, while he married Arya off to some lord or another – that is assuming he didn’t hand her over to the Freys or the Boltons directly. Still, it was an identifiable source of sanctuary, that she couldn’t rule out without at least some consideration, while the North was another beast entirely.

Everyone knew it was only a matter of time before Daenerys claimed the North. What was less clear was whether she would work with Roose Bolton – the man who’d worked with Frey and usurped the Stark’s position as Warden of the North – or install her own Warden whose loyalty could be trusted. Arya expected the latter, especially given the fact that the Dragon Queen had two, fully-grown, nephews whose claims to the thrown were at least as strong as hers. Leaving Bolton in charge would be a serious waste of a coveted prize. She hoped it was the other prince, whoever he was… the idea of Aegon ruling over the North killed her. Still, anyone would be better than Bolton.

The way she saw it she had a very very slim window of opportunity if she hoped to give Joana any of the inheritance that was hers by right as the heir to Winterfell. The wardenship was lost to them in all likelihood, but the Stark name, and perhaps even the claim to Winterfell, might not be if she struck just the right blows.

Her father had always taught her that the strength of the Starks – the strength that had allowed them to rule the North for over a thousand years – was their foundation in family. Men could be killed, but a dynasty built on family could endure, could entwine itself so deeply in with the Bannermen, the smallfolk, and the land that the very existence of the realm seems to rely on their presence. Their dynasty had endured for her father, after the Mad King roasted his father and brother alive when he was barely more than a boy. Now it was time to see if it could endure for her.

The Boltons and the Freys on the other hand – these were no families to build a legacy on. True, both Roose and Walder had children, Roose a Bastard whose viciousness had inspired gossip as far away as Braavos, and Walder a gaggle of sycophantic offspring, all bitterly competing for every scrap of their miserable father’s attention. Neither family inspired loyalty of the people; and both from what Arya could tell required only a nudge from fate to send them tumbling into chaos.

And so she decided to bypass her mother’s homeland and make her way North to cross three final names off her list before making her way to a friendly hearth to reclaim her name and inheritance. No matter when she did it coming out as Arya Stark would be a risk – as far as she knew she was the last of her siblings left alive, the last person with a valid claim to Winterfell. And she had a child, a bastard (though she’d kill anyone who so much as thought the word) which would no doubt complicate her chances of winning the support of most bannermen in asserting her claim.

But for now she couldn’t worry about that. For now, her only focus had to be on eliminating the men who stood in her way – and then she would strategize farther when the dust settled. And that meant pouring every ounce of her attention into killing Walder Frey.

So they wove their way North, past Fairmarket and along the Green Fork until they got within a few miles of her first target. The dragons were no longer on their trial, but she and Elia still took no chances as they secured the hideaway that Elia and Joana would stay in when she went on her mission. She checked the perimeter of the crofters hut they were staying in three times, while Elia put the toddler to sleep, feeling more anxious than she had in a long time. If all went according to plan she’d only be gone for a few hours at most – and Joana in all likelihood would be asleep for most of the time – but still, she worried. If she didn’t survive Elia would have to take care of Joana without her, and even with the substantial savings she had managed to pull together that would be far from an ideal situation. No, she just had to do this quickly and efficiently and then _go_ , before anyone noticed their presence. It was nothing compared to assassinations she had managed in the past, but now more than ever she was aware of what she had to lose.

“We’ll be alright,” Elia said softly, emerging from the croft and coming to stand next to Arya in the semi-darkness. “I know the rendezvous point if anything happens, and from up here we have a good enough view of the Twins to know if you set off a signal. Go, and don’t worry about Joana and me.”

She nodded, unable to shake the uncomfortable feeling in her stomach, but knowing it was time.

“Keep the horses saddled, just in case,” she said, pulling her cloak on over her sword and small pack. Then she hugged Elia, who had become closer to her than anyone since she’d parted with her brother Jon all those years ago, and with one final look at the hut where her daughter was sleeping, strode off into the night.

 

Jon

 

He wasn’t supposed to be looking. He wasn’t supposed to be looking because he’d already let Tyene’s mysterious hints distract him enough. He’d flown out more mornings than he’d like to admit from Casterly Rock – searching for the unknown North woman and the missing Sand Snake who were looking for Starks. He’d found next to nothing – which in truth made him look harder. He knew they existed – one of them had accosted and entranced Aegon all at once – and so the fact that he, a practiced hunter had only been able to make out a few miles of trail here and there told him that they were skilled and intentional in their flight. The Sand Snakes were good, of course, there prowess on the battlefield was well-known, but this was something else entirely.

And so he’d had to stop, eventually, and had remained at Casterly Rock until the surrender was finalized. He’d personally seen Obara off with Cersei and Tommen before he’d left to fly North, unwilling to wait on his aunt’s explicit permission before returning to the Wall. Recently his night time excursions with Ghost had been troubled – and he needed to at least return to Castle Black, check in with the new Lord Commander, and prepare the men to accept the influx of Lannisters heading their way as part of the surrender before he returned to King’s Landing.

He was supposed to be focused on the journey ahead. He was supposed to be thinking about where he’d stop and spend the night.

But then he saw the Dornish Sand Steeds, and everything he was supposed to do went out the window. He wouldn’t have recognized them, not flying along at the clip he was moving, except that they were both saddled and ready to go in the Dornish fashion.

It could have been a coincidence – they were pretty far north to be Meria Snow and Elia Sand, just south of the twins. But still. Dornishmen were rare in the North, and two beautiful Dornish Sand Steeds, rarer still.

He had to know. This might be his only chance to investigate this mystery woman, who so clearly didn’t want to be found. He almost felt guilty for discovering them this way – were he not coming from the air the crofter’s hut they had chosen would have been the perfect hideaway. And so he found himself steering Viserion into a dive, coming down in a field he hoped was just outside of the hut’s line of vision (it’s not easy to sneak while riding a dragon).

Slowly, he began to make his way up the hill to where the crofter’s hut was. It was colder here by the Twins then in King’s Landing, but there wasn’t yet the constant layer of ice and snow on the ground that covered the true North. Still, he could see his breath out in front of him as he walked cautiously towards the structure. As he approached, he realized dumbly that he really had no notion of what he was going to say. The few weeks he’d spent with Aegon camped outside of Casterly Rock had cured him of any notion he may have once had of returning the Northern girl to his brother so that justice might be carried out. More likely than not, she’d let the slimeball off easy with a bump on the head.

So what did he have to say then? Hello, I’m Jon Targaryen, Prince of the Andals and of the First Men, I hear you maybe might be looking for the Starks, me too? A younger Jon would’ve been so mortified at the awkwardness of such an exchange that he would’ve given up the venture then and there. But he had to know, and as much as it went against his normal character, he couldn’t let this Northwoman slip through his fingers without discovering who she was and why she was looking for his family.

And so with that in mind he approached the hut crouched low and ready to fight if he must, but without his sword drawn. The dim light of a fire shone from within, and as quietly as he could he placed a log from the clearing in front of the back door, in the hopes that it would prevent any quick escapes. He heard nothing from within, but still he felt as if his heart were in his throat with nerves as he pushed open the front door of the cabin and stepped inside.

At once he felt the cold press of steel against his throat, as he was shoved, hard, against the wall beside the door frame. He’d been expecting something but he was impressed with the swiftness of the move nonetheless.

Dark, almond shaped eyes stared up at him in anger and suspicion. An olive-skinned girl, likely no older than sixteen, with rich dark brown tresses had her knife to his throat and seemed more than capable of using it. She was unmistakably Tyene’s sister, though she was taller and more willowy than her firecracker of an older sister. Her face too, was more regal, with more delicate features and high cheekbones.

“Who are you?” She asked, her voice and her eyes showing something like wonder as well as fear. Something about him was unnerving her. Maybe she had seen Viserion after all, or maybe the black made her think that he was one of the Night’s Watch less savory brothers – many of whom had a reputation for victimizing women.

“I am Jon Targaryen.”

The name still felt weird, but he hoped in this case it might carry enough weight to get the teenager to lower her weapon. It didn’t, instead she pressed the knife closer

“And why are you here? Why have you been following us?”

“Tyene sent me.”

Whatever she had been expecting, that had not been it. She relaxed her grip a fraction, and he made his move – pushing her arm away and twisting the blade out of her hand before pinning her up against the wall. She let out a yelp of surprise and glared at him.

“My apologies. I have no desire to frighten you, but I have a hard time with knives. I’ll let you go, if you promise—“

“Lia?”

The tiny voice seemed to echo around the small two room cabin and the eyes of the girl in front of him widened in fear.

“Li Li? Where go?”

It was the voice of a child. A small child barely old enough to master a few words. Tyene had said nothing about a child. He’d listened for snippets about the two women who’d disappeared, but whenever people spoke of missing the baby, he’d always assumed they were speaking about the youngest Sand Snake.

Without even thinking, he realized he’d released the girl and was making his way towards the back room.

“LEAVE HER ALONE! STOP NO!!” the girl behind him screamed, launching herself onto his back and pulling him down onto the floor.

“LI LI?!” the child cried, clearly startled by her caretaker’s shouts.

The Sand Snake was doing her best to lock him in a hold on the ground while punching and kicking every inch of him she could reach.

“Wait, just hold on! I’m not going to—“ he began before getting the wind knocked out of him with a hard elbow to the stomach. Annoyed, he threw the girl off him, harder then he meant to and she landed with a thud a few feet behind him, rolling and reaching for the knife again as the baby shrieked to be held in the other room.

“JUST WAIT!” He boomed, as she stood up and began to come towards him with the knife again. She paused, a foot away, eyes wary.

“Ok? Just wait, I just want to—“

But whatever he wanted died in his mind as the child, clearly fed up with being ignored, came toddling into the room. She was unsteady on her pudgy little legs, wearing a night shift over her slightly tanned skin and clutching a tattered well-loved plush toy to her tiny body. Her dark brown hair was curling around her thin face at odd angles as if she’d just risen from tossing and turning and she was peering at him with curious interest as he stared at her opened mouthed, absolutely transfixed.

He knew those eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want your thoughts :) Should have a new chapter out soon!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Just got back into writing after a too long hiatus, and I'm really happy to be getting back to this story! Let me know what you think!! As always your comments are really valued!

Arya

 

She moved swiftly and silently through the trees, wiping the blood off her knife as she went.  She’d had to make it quicker than she would have liked – she didn’t have time to savor Walder Frey’s end, but she was able to watch his eyes widen in fear when she whispered “the North remembers” before slitting his throat.

It would have to do.  The castle had been more crowded than she had expected, which would mean that if they didn’t take her bait, her and Elia would have quite the search party on their heels.  She’d drugged Walder Frey’s bastard son and dragged him into the room after killing the old man.  Hopefully his bitter, jealous, and competitive high born siblings would not hesitate to pin their father’s murder on the popular bastard. No doubt at least one of the greedy Frey children would see it as an opportunity to avoid spreading their meager holdings any thinner than need be. 

And so she made her way through the trees, daydreaming about the chaos she left behind her, and savoring the long forgotten rush of adrenaline she got from a revenge killing, and half-heartedly chastising herself.  She’d thought after Jaime Lannister that this particular pleasure had evaporated with motherhood – that she could no longer find secret satisfaction in taking the life of a hated enemy. Gods knew that should be the way of it, and yet…

Here she was, practically drunk on vengeance. 

Avenging Robb and her mother felt like the beginning of the end of the terrible events that had ripped her family asunder all those years ago.  She’d accepted in a way that taking vengeance for what had happened to her father was likely not in the cards for her – Goffery was dead, and Cersei was in the hands of the Mother of Dragons and would surely be kept under such serious guard that even Arya, with all her assassin’s training, would have a hard time getting to the Lioness.  But the Freys, who had used her brother’s noble character against him, who had broken ever sacred tradition to harm a guest in their keeping, they had gone unnoticed and unpunished in the Dragon Queen’s fledgling rule.  And so vengeance had been hers by right and by conquest.  And while the Queen concerned herself with her coronation and the punishment of the Lannisters in King’s Landing, she would have her retribution in the North as well. Then and only then, would it be safe for her and Joana to take their rightful place as Wardens of the North at last.

Her head was so filled with swirling thoughts of revenge and returning home that she didn’t take the time to do her customary check to see if anyone had walked into their sanctuary, as she had taken to doing in each of their resting places along the journey north from Casterly Rock.  If she had, she would have seen the man’s boot marks, trailing around the side and entrance of the cabin. But ddistracted as she was, she simply pushed in the door quietly, so as not to wake Joana, and slipped into the small kitchen, not realizing that anything was amiss until her eyes flicked up and locked onto the silver-grey stare that froze her dumb for the first time in over three years.

 

Jon

 

He couldn’t breathe. 

_Arya._

She had been the only thing on his mind since he saw the child, but still he’d hardly allowed himself to hope. Elia had remained mum, and so he’d agreed to sit, disarmed in plain view while they waited. He was so curious that he would’ve let her bind his hands had she insisted, but she’d just settled behind him, rapier in hand, and waited as the toddler dozed beside her.  Each minute had felt like an eternity in the silent cabin, watching the door and straining his ears for any hint of someone approaching through the darkness outside.

And then he’d heard it. The soft sound of light footsteps against sod, so soft that he would’ve missed it had he not been concentrating with every fiber of his being on detecting even the smallest of sounds.  He sprang to his feet, and Elia scrambled up behind him, clearly taken by surprise, but nonetheless with the grace of a practiced water dancer.  But before the girl could protest, the door creaked open, and a small woman slipped inside.

The sight of her hit him like a physical blow.  She was taller than when he’d seen her last, but still small, with an unmistakably athletic build that seemed to ooze strength and agility despite its diminutive size. The athleticism in her figure had always been there though, no what struck him dumb and left his mouth dry and his heart aching were the unmistakably feminine curves which had developed in the intervening years, making the men’s hose she wore look like the incarnation of the sins septons warned of at pulpits throughout the Seven Kingdoms. 

She was a woman. She had become a woman, and she’d done it alone. His eyes locked onto hers, which were wide and brimming with unshed tears and his heart constricted further at the thought of the years she’d endured.

“Arya…” he said gruffly, his voice choked by emotion, taking a step towards her and extending his hand.  He longed to pull her against his chest and wrap her in his arms, but he could tell from her eyes that the shock of him would make such a drastic move on his part unwise.  She looked like a doe on the verge of taking flight as it was.

“Th-they killed you,” she whispered, her eyes still wide.

“They tried,” he said, preferring not to delve into that darkness now, “I promise you Little Wolf, I’m alive and well.”

Her eyes flew across his whole body, as if she was trying to verify what he said, and then slowly, tentatively, she reached out a hand to touch his extended one.  Light as a feather her fingers brushed across his palm and up to the tips of his outstretched fingers, as though her nimble touches could confirm his very existence.  He felt oddly exposed under her perusal, but he didn’t even dare to move as her hand shot out to touch the base of his neck, her fingers trailing lightly along the divet of his clavicle, as if she were feeling for something in his skin.  He could feel his pulse quicken oddly underneath her fingers, but still he said nothing as they felt up the pillar of his neck, still searching. 

Then suddenly her face jerked up, and her sliver-grey eyes locked on his once more.

“Gods, Jon, it really is you,” she said, still in an uncharacteristic whisper.  And then all her timidity evaporated, as she flung her arms around his neck and buried her face in the crook she’d been so intent on exploring with her fingers a moment earlier.  His arms came around her instinctively, and he inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of her and trying desperately to calm the emotional burning in his chest as every worry he’d felt for her in the nine years since they’d last been together washed over him like a wave.

 She let out a sob, and he hugged her tighter as she began to weep into his shoulder.  The sound, however, clearly roused the sleeping babe in the room, and from behind him he heard the sound of little girl stirring.

“Mama, why sad?”

The toddlers question seemed to restore both of them to their surroundings.  Arya released him at once, striding over to the babe and taking her in her arms. 

“Mama’s crying because she’s happy, baby. Mama hasn’t seen your Uncle Jon in a very long time.”

Mama.  She was a mother.  He’d known, but something about hearing it spoken aloud made him feel like he’d been doused in cold water.  Had she been taken by force?  Had she turned to peddling her body to keep alive all these long years?  Gods know she wouldn’t be the first in either case, especially in these dark times.  He’d failed her.  They’d all failed her.  He should’ve ridden from the wall the moment that news of his father’s death reached him. 

Even now, even knowing of the awesome threat posed by the White Walkers still he felt that he had done wrong in staying to defend the Wall.  Here he was with Arya and her child conceived in gods know what horrible circumstance, not five miles from the place where Robb, his best friend and the closest thing to a brother he would ever know, had been slain at the hands of traitors. Not in years had his decision to stay in the Night’s Watch weighed on him so, not even in those horrible moments when he lay bleeding out on the ground, betrayed by the very men he called his brothers.

“Arya how did you come to be…” he began, but she turned back to him, the sleepy toddler cradled against her shoulder securely, and held her finger to her lips in a sign for silence.

“We must leave.  Will you come?” She said, without explanation or delay.  At her words he sputtered, thinking of all the things they needed to go over in order for her to understand how he had come to be there.  Gods she might even still think they were siblings. She’d referred to him as “Uncle Jon” afterall.

“Arya we have to talk about—“

“And we will.  But now, now we must leave.  I cannot risk Joana, I’ve already tarried longer than we’d planned.”

 _Joana._  She’d named her child after him. He felt his heart constrict again, but her eyes remained on him expectantly, as if she’d said nothing of consequence.

“Will you come with us Jon?” she said again, her voice just failing to conceal the note of hopefulness behind her words.

“Yes.” He said, all thoughts of his duties to the North momentarily gone from his mind.

“Good. Get your horse then and we’ll be off.” She said, grabbing the one of the packed saddle bags Elia had left by the door, and attempting to nudge the door open with her hip.

“I haven’t got a horse.”

 _And this is why we can’t just gallivant off into the night before I explain a few things,_ he thought to himself sourly as she gave him a quizzical look. 

“Then how did you—“

“Arya, I know you don’t want to hang around in Walder Frey’s backyard, but there’s somethings you really ought to know before we leave it.”

“But it’s not anymore, and that’s why we have to go now.”

“It’s not?  Not what?”

“Not Walder Frey’s backyard,” she said, exasperatedly, seeming once again like the short-tempered preteen who he’d parted ways with all those years ago.  His mouth twitched at the thought but she sighed, and went on, wiping the smile off his face as quickly as it had appeared.

“It’s not his backyard anymore you see, because I just killed him.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry its been so long! School is really kicking my ass this semester so it's been hard to justify taking the time to write - but here we are! Let me know what you think!

Jon

 

“You _what_?!”

She gave a half shrug, as if that was sufficient to explain how she had travelled across half the realm undetected with a toddler and a teenager, to assassinate the longest ruling Lord in the Seven Kingdoms. 

“Arya—“ he began, squaring his shoulders and subconsciously preparing to tell her off as if she were still the misbehaving young girl she had once been, but she held up a hand to silence him.  It was such a decidedly female gesture that he found himself momentarily distracted.

“I love you Jon but now is not the time.  We need to put distance between ourselves and the Frey’s before dawn.  I have no way of knowing how long my cover up will distract them.  They could have seen through my attempt at framing Bastard Walder and be looking for an assassin as we speak. Get your horse from where it’s hiding and lets be off.”

From this little speech Jon gathered two things: one, that his darling baby sister (now cousin) had clearly put thought into this assassination; and two, that she was going to find out sooner rather than later about his unorthodox method of travel. 

“By the Gods Arya,” he cursed, shaking his head and trying to figure out where to begin.

“I cannot risk Joana.  We leave now, Jon.”  She was already gathering her things.  Clearly she thought the chances of people being sent out to search the countryside were high. Behind Arya, her little Sand Snake companion was nearly finished strapping on her rapier and lacing up her riding boots.

Jon sighed.  There was nothing else for it then.  Daenerys would be furious at him, but he’d deal with that in turn. 

“Make for the Trident.  Go along the Greenfork, I will try to meet you before you get 15 miles down the road, but if I don’t, turn towards the Kings Road and I will meet you there in time.  Then we will talk, Arya.” He spoke the words like an order and gave her his most serious look.  It would have been more than enough to silence the protests of any many in the Nights Watch – maybe even any man he knew, save Aegon. But she just threw up her hands in exasperation. 

“Jon, we head North! And we cannot make for the Kings Road, not with a dozen or more Freys looking for us.”

“They will not be looking for you.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him as if he were soft in the head, and then went pale, her eyes widening in fear. 

“Jon, you cannot go to the Twins! Not alone, what are you thinking?”

He’d forgotten how well she had always been able to read him as a child – even now she knew what he was going to do before he said it.  Their father had always joked that they were two of a kind.  But they were _not_ of the same kind, just as Ned Stark was not, in truth, his father, and now she would know him for the imposter he was.

“I won’t be alone.  And by the time I’m done, no one will be left to remember that Walder Frey died in his bed tonight.  Now go. I’ll meet you by midday.”

And with that he leaned in and kissed her forehead, ignoring the look of confusion and doubt that was still painted across her face, and strode out of the cabin and back down the hill to where Viserion sat waiting for him.  If he was being honest with himself, he was really glad that Arya had provided him with the excuse he needed to do what he should have done the day he received his dragon. 

He would avenge Robb, the man who had been a brother to him, the man who he should have joined in battle all those years ago.  As he swung up on Viserion Jon’s eyes, which so often appeared Stark grey, flashed violet in the light of the first rays of dawn.   He felt a surge of furious energy pulse through his veins as they pushed off the ground, and began to fly towards the castle, soaring over the dark forms of two horses making their way slowly down the hill in the direction of the Kings Road. He fixed his eyes on the castle ahead, and the rage in him expanded.

He would avenge Robb, and he would burn the Twins to the ground.

 

Arya

 

She forced herself to urge her horse forward, moving quietly and quickly through the light of early dawn.  Her mind was screaming at her to follow Jon, to stop him, to demand that he do nothing, nothing that could put him in harm’s way to minimize the damage of her decisions.  But she couldn’t do that.  Her place was here, with Joana and Elia.  It was bad enough that they were heading Southeast on Jon’s orders, she could not further compromise what she had come to do to stop Jon.  But still…

She was just thinking of a way to justify sending Elia ahead to wait for Jon when the now familiar but still terrifying shadow of a dragon passed overhead. She jerked her horse aside, pulling herself under the branches of a willow, but it was too late – at this distance it was impossible that the beast and its rider would have missed them.  Behind her Elia gasped, and she whipped around in the saddle just in time to see the white scaled body shoot past, with its black rider less than two stories over their heads.

“Look! By the Gods Arya, look!”

And then she knew, even before Elia whispered it to her in awe.

The rider who was Jon.  He was bent low over the back of the white dragon, his black curls and cape whipping out behind him in the wind, revealing the great sword of Valerian Steel belted at his waist. He had been the one hunting them for weeks, flying circles over their trail and forcing them to take cover every day. 

She should be relieved – relieved that they’d been mistaken about the cause behind the search for them and that certain death at the hands of Aegon Targaryen might not await them after all – but all she felt was confusion and an odd clenching feeling in her stomach at the sight of him maneuvering through the air in wordless harmony with his dragon, the same kind of wordless harmony he’d once had with Ghost.  She wondered almost bitterly where his Direwolf was now.

What had happened to the brother she knew?

“Should we wait?” Elia’s timid voice broke her from her thoughts.  They’d come to a standstill when Jon had passed, and the teen Sand Snake seemed uncharacteristically unsure of what to do, fidgeting on her horse in clear agitation.

“We press on – towards the Trident for now,” she said spurring her horse to a trot once more and moving back onto the path.  They pressed on through the forest, making their way towards the Green Fork which they would follow until the Kings Road cut closer.  They stayed silent all the while, Arya couldn’t find the words at the moment and Elia – who had come to be almost as close as a sister to her over these last few weeks – seemed to understand, trailing her like a shadow as they padded slowly forward, desperate to put distance between themselves and the Twins. But when the trees finally cleared and they moved onto the well-worn path that went along the river Arya found herself frozen in place once more.

Even from miles downriver the blaze from the Twins was plain to see.  Great billows of black smoke wafted up into the blue morning sky, and below hot orange flames blazed up from the charred grey mass that Arya knew to be the Freys ancestral home.  Above the ruin swooped a dragon, gleaming like a polished pearl in the sunlight and occasionally aiming jets of flame at the castle and surrounding grounds.

It was a massacre.  Even from here she could tell the damage was extensive.  The Freys would be ruined – and what’s more, the gateway to the North would be open now, for people, and armies, to move through at their will.

“We press on!” she said again, more to urge herself on than to instruct Elia.  Behind her, Joana stirred in her sling, nestling her face against Arya’s shoulder blades and letting out a low mumble of protest at the unnecessary volume of her mother’s voice. That more than anything spurred her forwards, they were not out of danger yet, and she could not tarry until they were.  They rode on along the river for another ten miles before they reached stopped for a midday meal.  By then Joana had awoken and was fussy with boredom so they set up along the bank and Arya allowed her to toddle around on the bank and she and Elia broke out bread and cheese. 

“Ird!” the toddler squeaked from behind Arya.

“Is there a bird, baby girl?” she said indulgently, not turning around.  This was a favorite game of Joana’s – Arya was quite certain she’d pointed out every bird, squirrel, raccoon and mouse between Casterly Rock and the Twins by now – but she indulged her just the same. 

“Ird! Big Ird!”

“Oh it’s a big bird is it?” she said, still rummaging in her pack in search of the smoked venison strips she’d purchased three days before.

“Big Ird! Fire Ird! Hi Irdy!” the little girl shrieked in excited delight, and Arya turned around just in time to see the dragon, with Jon still seated atop its back, circle low. 

In one swift movement she hurled her pack aside and snatched Joana off the ground, turning her away from the all too interested eye of the dragon, as she fought the urge to take shelter.  The toddler let out a squawk of protest but she ignored her, inhaling deeply to calm her still panicked heart and turning around slowly to face the dragon, and her dismounting brother, once more.  Elia had drawn her sword again, clearly as put off as Arya by the appearance of the terrifying dragon in their midst, but Jon seemed not to notice the naked blade. His eyes were fixed on Arya, and a momentary glimmer of hurt seemed to cross over them at the sight of her shielding her child from him, but it was gone in a second, making Arya almost feel as if she had imagined it.  Even so, she relaxed her stance, turning her body back to face him more completely and allowing her wriggling daughter to turn about in her arms to get a better look at the approaching man.

“Mama he ride Ird!” she exclaimed, pointing a pudgy finger at Jon. “Me too!” and with that she half leaned half dived in the direction of Jon, who instinctively put out his arms to receive her.  She went to him gladly, seemingly oblivious to the blood and soot covering her hands and lower arms.  He however, noticed the contrast against her clean linen play clothes at once and stammered awkwardly in apology.

“I’m sorry I should have washed before taking her.  She shouldn’t have to see such things.”

Arya sighed, “she’s seen worse than that I’m afraid.  But pass her back if you like, she just wants you to take her dragon riding which I’m afraid is out of the question, and you can go and wash your hands before we eat.”

Even as she said it Arya hated the way she sounded.  She felt like a matronly hostess, welcoming the men in from a hunt.  What in the name of the Gods was making her feel so utterly awkward in her own skin?

Jon shook his head, as if remembering himself.

“I can’t.  I must go at once.  I know I said we’d talk – and we will, soon – but I must go tell her what I’ve done.”

“Tell who?”

“Daenerys.  She might be furious with me but it cannot be helped now.  I must go, now but I will meet you at the intersection of the Trident in a day’s time, I promise. Daenerys has sent one of her main generals there to launch an attack on Harrenhal, though I am not sure who.  Take my sword and tell them you are my sister and no harm will come to you or the babe, or your Dornish friend.” 

“You have to go now?” Arya said, hating herself for the whine in her voice, and feeling as if she were twelve years old again, watching him leave for the Nights Watch.

“Yes.  News of this will travel fast, and I must give her an explanation.  I owe her that.”

Arya felt a cold sensation creep steel itself over her chest.  She nodded curtly, as an idea formed in her mind and began to cloud out all other strands of thought.

Jon moved closer and passed Joana to her, hovering just inches from her face as he did so, his grey eyes stormy and intense. 

“One day.  And then we will talk, I promise.  I know we have a lifetime to cover, I don’t know how I could ever make it up to you little sister.”

And then planting a quick kiss on her forehead, he was off, striding back to where he’s dragon sat crouched ready to fly back to the Targaryen queen that it served.  And as he took off Arya knew, knew in her heart what must have happened.  There was only one explanation after all.  The Mother of Dragons had taken Jon as her lover, and he belonged to her now. He might even be her choice for King, or Prince Consort if she had gone so far as to give him one of her precious Dragons.  Arya understood it was the only possible explanation, but what she didn’t understand is why she burned with envy as she watched him ride away beyond the horizon.     


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So thrilled to get back to this story after a ridiculously draining semester. I hope some of you are still interested in reading it, and for those of you who I've made wait I am so so sorry. I hope you like this chapter though - I'm a little worried its trying to pack to much in so I'd love to hear your thoughts :-)

Gendry

 

_Just think about it._

Dany had whispered the words in his ear as she bid him farewell three days ago, going up on her tiptoes and planting a soft kiss on his cheek afterwards.

Oh he was thinking about it alright – between Daenerys’ proposal and the memories of his time in the castle he was about to lay siege to he found that there was barely a moment of the day when his head wasn’t spinning.  Even in sleep he found no peace – moving from stirring fantasies of Daenerys’ warm embrace to restless dreams where he was pursuing a grey eyed women through the ruins of Harrenhal – always two steps behind, always just too far away to reach out and take her hand…

He knew what his answer should be. He loved Daenerys – loved her for her heart, her resolve, her loyalty.  He admired her for the queen and the woman that she was, and was he fairly certain that he could live a thousand lives and never be worthy of her favor.  Despite his personal unworthiness though, his time in Westeros as the Lord of the House Baratheon had taught him that he did indeed have something to offer Daenerys as a husband – ridiculous though the notion would have once seemed to him.  He had the loyalty of the people of Kings Landing, more unequivocally than any other noblemen, perhaps in the history of the city.  What’s more he provided a path for the Baratheon’s to transition out of power without the Stormlands rising up to protect the position of their ruling House. It was a good match, for him and the realm, and he should accept and yet…

Arya. The thought of her still nagged at his mind as if he were missing something.  Even though it had been over five years since he’d been taken from her to be given to Stannis Baratheon recently he’d felt her presence so strongly that it felt as if they’d only parted ways the week before.  He supposed it was getting to know Jon Snow that had triggered it – though Gendry liked the Targaryen Prince well enough in his own right, it was his mannerisms that were so like the hers that made Gendry seek out his company so frequently.

And that was why he had to come back here, back to the Riverlands where he and Arya had parted ways, martially troops in preparation for the assault on Harrenhal.  He needed to bury this part of his past once and for all so he and Dany could move forward.

“We’re here Milord.” The sharp knock on the door and the mumbled explanation of one of his men brought him back to the present.  They were moored at the Trident, fifteen miles fromBut Harrenhal.  He had arrived with a mixed fleet of enough Dornishmen, Unsullied, and Stormlanders to set up a formidable siege against any ordinary fortress, but for Harrenhal, which had once been the most formidable of all fortresses in Westeros, more would be required. And so they were waiting to be met by reinforcement from Riverrun, under the leadership of Edmure Tully who was evidently choosing to break his truce-through-duress with the Freys of the Twins to join Daenerys. 

_So now we wait_.  He thought to himself as he clambered up on deck and surveyed the familiar surroundings.  The waiting would be the worst part, he knew, so instead he busied himself with the setting up camp.  He knew that he was free to beg off if he chose, his status as the Lord of the House Baratheon made it so that he’d never be asked to do a mundane chore again.  But that wasn’t the kind of Lord he wanted to be, so he made sure that when there was work to be done he was there, digging latrines and putting up tents with the rest of the men.

But when every tent was up and his men were eating and talking around a few dozen fires, there was nothing left to keep his mind from wandering back to the past, back to five years before when he’d walked away…

_“I’m going to stay on and smith for the Brotherhood.”_

He’d said it to Arya with such pride, and but her eyes had only widened with incredulity. 

_“Have you lost your mind?”_

She’d laid into him, telling him on no uncertain terms that the Lannisters would come for him there; that they’d kill everyone in league with the Brotherhood.

_“You don’t have to do this.”_

_“I want to.”_

He hadn’t wanted to, not really, what he’d wanted was to avoid what he knew would come if he stayed with her when she was restored to her rightful position as a lady – no a _princess_ – of the North.

_“Robb needs good men too. We’re leaving tomorrow.  And then you could--”_

_“What?  Serve him?”_

His temper had flared at that, bitterness rising in his chest at the unwelcome reminder of how low he was compared to her.  He’d tried to walk it back, tried to make it seem like it was about something else, about duty and community, about finding a family.

_“I can be your family.”_

Those five words had held more vulnerability than he’d seen her display during all their time together, but at the time he’d been too consumed by his own resolve – rooted in bitterness – to hear it.

_“You wouldn’t be my family, you’d be my lady.”_

Gendry jolted upright as the scene that so often haunted his thoughts finished replaying in his head.  He needed to get out, needed to take a walk, do _something_ to clear his mind.  He went into his tent, grabbed his hammer and a long knife that he stowed absently in his belt, and set out for the road.  He’d entertained the thought momentarily of going to the stables to get his horse saddled but he decided against it in the end. While he was more than capable on horseback it would never be something that occurred to him naturally as it did with people who had been raised with riding from their infancy.  No, for him being on his own two feet would always feel steadier, and he needed steadying tonight. He passed the sentries of the camp, stopping to tell one of them quietly that he’d be gone no longer than an hour before wandering up the Great North Road. 

He went for about a mile along the familiar route, focusing on nothing more complicated that putting one foot in front of the other in the growing darkness of the night.  Something, likely the potency of the memory, had him on edge, thrumming with a nervous energy that made him feel as if the whole woods around him was holding its breath, waiting on… what?

He turned a corner with some caution, hyper aware of the beating of his heart in his chest, when he saw them.

Two riders, seated on two of the best mounts he’d ever seen were coming down the road, clearly heading in the direction of their camp.  The woman in front, was little more than a teenager, raven-haired and olive-skinned with quick intelligent eyes.  She wore a riding cloak that seemed oddly misshapen, protruding before her as if to hide something positioned in front of her in the saddle.   The swarthy-skinned girl pulled the reigns as soon as she saw him and the other rider surged in front of her, asserting in one movement the selfless protective bravery that Gendry had come to see as a rare quality in men.

But the second rider was no man. Gendry could tell that much from the femininely curved legs that gripped the horse expertly, despite the fact that the rider herself was cloaked and hooded in a thick riding cloak.  Apparently adjudging one man on foot to be no threat, the rider began to ride up as if to entreat with him, though he noted that she intentionally rode along the edge of the road, giving herself the full width of the path to turn with maximum maneuverability should their conversation go south.  Whoever, this woman was, she knew what she was doing.

But then something stopped her in her tracks.  She froze and he could feel her just staring at him, though in the gathering darkness he couldn’t see her face beneath her hood.

“Please,” he started, his voice seeming to break some forbidden barrier in the queer tension surrounding them, “I mean you no harm.  Come along if you would, the camp is not far.”

But instead of taking comfort at his words the mysterious woman seemed to start, jolting at the sound of his voice, and pulling back on her horses reins with far less fluidity than she’d shown herself capable of before.  The beast through back its head with a snort of protest, and though she held on effortlessly, the force of it through back her hood. 

She hadn’t had the long chestnut tresses when he’d seen her last, but he would recognize her pert nose and the set of her stubborn chin in his sleep.  Even in the semi-darkness he felt he could see the sliver of her eyes flash wildly in surprise as she turned her mount away from him, and began to spur her horse away from him.

“ARYA!” He bellowed, stumbling in his surprise before taking off in earnest after her.  But it was too late – she and the other rider, whoever she was were already taking off at a cantor up the North Road.

After all these years – here he was, watching himself lose her again.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Squee! So as some of you likely have noticed I have begun to update my stories again because I'm finally experiencing the glorious combination of free-time and creative thinking needed to play this particular game. Sorry its been so long! But This is a relatively long chapter so hopefully you all enjoy! As always, comments are very much appreciated!

Arya

 

_It’s him.  He’s here._

The thoughts pounded through her mind as they cantered up the Great North Road, retreating the way they’d come as the darkness of the oncoming night gathered around them.  She felt breathless, and overcome, but not in the way that young girls mooning over their lovers do.  No this was an anxious feeling, a deep, building panic that roiled her gut and made her bend low over the neck of her horse, willing it forward even faster.

“Arya!”

Elia’s cry pulled her from her thoughts and she pulled the reins up, shaking herself and looking around at her companion, in dismay.

“What?  What is it?”

The teenager was breathless from the hard ride, but still managed to fix Arya with an incredulous look.

“Wha- what are we doing?  Who is that man?  Why did you run?”

Arya’s tension built with every syllable her companion uttered.

“He’s no one.”

“Bollocks.”

“Just an old acquaintance.”

“Didn’t sound like he thought he was just an old acquaintance.  He called for you like a drowning man being swept out to sea would call for hel—“

“Don’t.” She said cutting off her friend as a wave of guilt hit her like a physical blow, “please, Elia, let’s just go.”

She chanced a glance up at her companion and saw that Elia’s almond eyes were wide with incredulity. In the saddle in front of Elia Joana gazed up at her with round troubled eyes, having sensed the tension of the exchange and flight from the camp.  Even in the fading light, Arya could make out the dark border around her daughter’s silver irises which made Joana’s eyes stand out even more than Arya’s own stormy pair.  You couldn’t tell now, but anyone who saw the child’s face in daylight would note with wonder that the rims was actually a lovely deep blue, the same blue that allowed people to find Robert Baratheon pleasant to behold long after he lost his striking figure to sloth and gluttony.  A blue that, Arya had no doubt, Gendry had become famous for now in his own right.

_They will know. And they will take her from me.  
_

Just thinking it made her reach for Joana compulsively. Joana came to her without a moment’s hesitation, reaching her arms out and burrowing herself into Arya with the familiar, sleepy look on her face that let Arya know the toddler’s eyelids would be growing heavy within a few minutes.  Looking down at the child sitting before her Arya began to notice other things, other signs that announced her as the daughter of the newly legitimized Baratheon Lord: her lightly bronzed skin, shining in golden contrast to Arya’s porcelain; her long limbs already prophesying a future where Joana would tower over her mother. 

“Arya, we cannot simply run.  Your brother is expecting to meet us and will come after us if you’ve gone.  And that man, if he’s…” Elia began and Arya’s head jerked up.

“He’s no one, I told you.”

Elia gave her a pointed skeptical look again, letting the silence stretch between them in the hopes that it would goad Arya into the confessing, but she stood mum.  Even with her secrets crashing down around her saying it out loud was still too much to ask.  After a time, Elia seemed to see that and continued.

“Your brother will not stop looking for us.  He is our best chance for safety – Joana’s best chance for safety.  Winter is coming in the North, and if you have a plan for taking on the Boltons you haven’t shared it with me yet.” 

Arya sighed.  Everything her companion said was right on the money.  Going north alone was not only foolish, it was downright dangerous.  They could be tracked more easily through the snow which Arya knew had begun to accumulate on the ground everywhere north of the Twins.  Before they’d known about Jon it had been worth it – they’d been fleeing from a Targaryen prince who focus was in the South, and getting to the North and taking it by stealth or force had been their best chance of having both Arya and Joana’s claimed legitimized. Now that she knew her brother had the ear of the Queen, and that he could potentially protect her from the wrath of Aegon Targaryen continuing north obstinately would be foolish, and yet had she been alone she would have done so without hesitation. 

But she was not alone – both Joana and Elia were relying on her.  As much as Elia was challenging her now, Arya knew that the girl would follow her to the Night King’s front door and back if she asked it of her.  Loyalty like that is rarer than dragons though, and Arya could not abuse it to save face.  She would have to do this, and do it stealthily enough to avoid Gendry Waters until she could be sure that Jon was on her side. 

Her heart ached at the thought of having to work around the man that she’d once loved, the man whose arrival in Braavos had pulled her back from the abyss of being No One.  But he could take Joana in a moment if he wished to, and Gods she just knew, bastard that he was, he’d never leave his child to go unclaimed.  

If she was lucky he’d take her too, begrudgingly, but dutifully, and he’d expect her to be his lady.  She felt a shiver run down her spine at the thought.

_I would fail._

She hadn’t been lady enough for him when he’d been a penniless, hunted bastard.  She’d been too crass, too rough, too angry, too ugly.  She’d offered him family, the greatest gift she could think to give and he’d rejected her, not wanting to bend a knee to such a sad excuse for a noblewoman.  If he could hold ladies to such a high standard as a bastard, Gods know what he would expect of her now, now that he was a great Lord and the chosen lover of Daenerys Targaryen. 

She’d not forgotten how the news of their clandestine love had cut her when she’d first heard the news.  The Dragon Queen it seemed, had won the heart of both her brother and the father of her child.  She wasn’t sure which one caused her more jealousy if she was being honest with herself.  

But Gendry, good soul that he was, would likely bow out of his relationship with the Queen if he heard he had a child, presuming she let him. And he would take her, a dark and broken shadow of a woman next to the loveliness of Queen, as a wife, and _try_ to make her a lady. 

But she wasn’t sure she wanted to be less crass, less rough, less angry.  Admittedly, she was objectively less ugly than she'd been, but even that tended to be less a blessing than a curse, tended to restrict her ability to travel without notice.  And her fury had kept her alive when every other source of strength was long gone.  What’s more, she couldn’t abide the thought of Joana being taught to be soft, to be gentle, to be _weak._  Gendry was a good man but he had a peaceful soul.  If there was anything that this world had taught her it was that everyone, even children, had to be prepared for war.

_It cannot work._

“Alright.”  She said at last, breaking from her thoughts and addressing Elia again.  “We will not run, but we will hide for tonight.  Somewhere close but where we will not be found.  Tomorrow night I will go to Jon, but I will go alone, and I will leave Joana in your care.  If I am not back in twenty-four hours you will take her with you and return to Dorne.  Will you do this?  Will you promise me?”

“Y-yes,” Elia said, clearly taken aback.  

“Alright. Then we must make for the closest town and make camp somewhere nearby.  There are some things I will need.”

 

Jon

He was at a loss.  

He’d come back from King’s Landing as quickly as he could, having gotten berated by Daenerys for taking such a drastic step without consulting her first but having been permitted to return.  If he was being honest, he could tell that his Aunt wanted him to be with Gendry Baratheon at the siege on Harrenhal, and she seemed relieved to have a reason to order him to remain in the South with Viserion for a bit longer.  

“I will come to meet you there as soon as this business with Cersei Lannister is concluded.  And then you may present your sister to me, and we may discuss her place in our court.”  

He’d nodded, not sure that he liked the sound of that, and found he was glad that he’d refrained from telling the Queen about Arya’s child.  He hadn’t been ready to admit to himself that his sister was a mother, knowing what such a condition must mean about the years that she’d spent unprotected.  So he’d held his tongue about Joana, and had fled King’s Landing as soon as he’d received Daenerys’ blessing.

But she had gone.

He’d gotten to the encampment at the Trident to find an inconsolable and uncharacteristically intoxicated Gendry Baratheon.

“Says he’s seen a ghost ser,” one of the men at arms had murmured to Jon surreptitiously as he approached Gendry’s tent, “the ghost of yer sister, begging your pardon ser.  Says he was walking and he saw yer sister ride up with another woman, but before ‘e could reach ‘er says she turned right around and rode into the night.  Only we searched the road, sent out our fastest riders ‘n all and we couldn’t find any side of ‘em.  Then it turns out that this is where ‘e parted ways with her before she headed up to the Twins fer the Red Wedding, begging yer pardon Ser. An’ that got the sergeant at arms thinkin’ that maybe it’s this place what’s got the Lord Baratheon’s head in a tizzy. ‘E’s not the first to feel the presence of ghosts round these parts milord, if I may say so.  We’re fetching a septon to see ‘im now.”

“Thank you, soldier.  That will be all.  Tell the septon, his services will not be needed at present.  Let me speak to Lord Baratheon.”

The soldier had looked doubtful, but let Jon pass into the tent.  Gendry had been sitting on the floor, his back leaning against his raised bed, a tanker of ale beside him and his head in his hands.  Jon had seen the man before him jump into the role of a Great Lord, an heir to the Stormlands, a lover of a queen, and a commander of troops with humble efficiency, but he’d never once seen him look as lost as he did now.  

Gendry looked up at the sound and his eyes widened in surprise and desperation.  

“Jon. I know what I saw.”

His voice was so haggard that Jon had felt an instant jolt of pity for the man.  And yet, somewhere inside himself Jon had felt a twist of suspicion rise.  The Jon Snow who’d lived once would not have hesitated to give Gendry comfort and to joyfully announce the news of Arya’s survival.  But that Jon had been killed by the blades of the men he’d called brothers, and the man he was now found that he was wondering why Arya, the bravest person he’d met in his life, had turned tail and run at the sight of a man who claimed to be her great friend and protector.

Was it possible that Gendry had deceived Jon about his friendship with Arya?  Might their acquaintance have been less amicable than Gendry had let on?

He just couldn’t be sure.  

“You’re not wrong.  It was my sister you saw,” Jon had said, surprising even himself with the steely cold of his voice.  “I sent her ahead with instructions to meet me here.”

Without another word Jon had turned to go, but Gendry had lunged from his place seated on the floor and grabbed Jon’s arm.  

“Jon wait! Where are you going?”

“To find her.”

“Take me with you.  I cannot bear sitting here wondering—“

“No. No, until I know why she ran from you you’ll remain here. Under guard.”

And then he’d left the tent, signaling to the guards to take up posts outside his friend’s tent, with the sound of Gendry’s calls echoing behind him.

That had been nearly twenty-four hours ago, and he’d spent most of the night and the whole day looking for any sign of Arya and her companions.  He'd always been a good tracker, and now looking from the air he was likely one of the best in the world, and yet he had come up with nothing.  He could see now why the men thought they were chasing a ghost.  The rumor had only grown over the course of the day, and now nearly half the camp was convinced their commanders had come into contact with a malevolent spirit who was intent on forcing them to turn on each other. He’d finally retreated to his own tent, exhausted, frustrated and filthy, intent on getting a few hours’ sleep before resuming the search when the sun rose once more.  

A call from outside his tent from one of the men at arms announcing made Jon’s mood, if possible, darken even further.  

“What is it?” he practically spat as the man sheepishly let himself into the tent.  

“Beg- beggin’ your pardon ser, but there’s there’s a uh… well to be honest ser a whore here who, well ser she’s offering to well, to tend to you ser. _Only you_ mind.  She’s being awful particular on that front.”

“Soldier I am in no mood to spend time with anyone, not even a… _woman_ offering to 'tend to me' as you put it. Please thank her kindly from me and see that she has something to eat before she is sent on her way.”

Even in his dark mood Jon was sure to see that women who came to their camp offering their bodies in desperation were fed.  Gods knew for some of them it was the only way they could be sure to get food.

“She, well she said ser, begging your pardon, ser, if’n you said something along those lines to tell yer grace that she’s also heard tell of two women and a babe who came round these parts recently.  Seems to think you’d be interested to know what she’s got to say ser.”

Jon sat bolt upright.  Of course.  How could he be so stupid?  He couldn’t believe Arya would risk her young companion by sending her dressed as a strumpet into a camp full of men, but he was glad for it nonetheless.  Afterwards, when they were together again, he’d give her a talking to about men and protecting those who rely upon your protection.  But for now he was just glad to have word.

“Let her in, and tell the guards in front of my tent that they may have the evening to themselves.” He’d not have word of Arya’s child leaked through camp on account of eves-dropping sentries.  

The man at arms gave him a broad grin, which was missing a good many teeth, and went out.  A minute later the flap of the tent reopened and he returned, holding it open for a young woman to step inside.  

Straw colored ringlets framed her face and cascaded down to her shoulder blades which were largely laid bare by the cut of the dress.  The dress – if such an innocuous word could be applied to the garment - had sleeves meant to hang off the shoulder that laid bare glorious inches of perfect, creamy white skin.  It was only held in place by a tight laced girdle, which forced the woman’s rounded bosom up in a proud display.  From there the girdle tightened down the length of her torso, revealing an almost impossibly slim waist before a volume of petticoats concealed the promise of nicely rounded hips.  Her eyes were lined with dark coal, and her cheeks and lips were rouged provocatively.  The overall effect was distinctly alluring, in the way that classier-than-average whores often were, and Jon, even though his mind was fogging slightly with sudden arousal, could see why the men had taken her at her insistence that her attentions were for the Dragon Rider only.

Still, he wasn’t thrilled to see his sister in such a state.  


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in two days! Woohoo!

Jon

 

He waited until the man at arms was well away before speaking.  He didn’t trust himself not to raise his voice.

“Arya.”

“Jon,” she said arching her brow at him irreverently.

“I don’t suppose you brought my sword with you.”

“I did actually,” she said, flashing him an impertinent grin and flipping up her skirts to reveal more bare leg than he’d seen since Ygritte’s death and the sheath of his sword, strapped expertly to her leg.  He noticed another, slimmer blade strapped to the other leg before he realized what he was looking at and averted his eyes in embarrassment.

“Seven Hells Arya!”

“Sorry.”

“What in the name of the Gods have you been playing at?  Why did you run from Gendry Baratheon?  Why are you sneaking in here like a common whore rather than taking your rightful place as the lady you are?”

Sure enough his voice had raised to almost a shout and she cross the room swiftly to put her hand across his mouth.  It was a testament to how small she was that she needed to stand on his toes to cover his mouth propertly and the effect closed the space between them to only a few scant inches.

“I’ll explain, Jon, I promise.  But I cannot have you shouting.  Please.”

He nodded gruffly, embarrassed by himself and taken aback by the caution in her voice.  This woman was both the same and markedly different than the sister he’d said goodbye to all those years ago, and he found the effect of trying to keep the new her straight in his mind a bit overwhelming.

_She’s a mother. She’s not the child you knew._

After staring him in the eye to ensure he meant it when he nodded Arya slowly removed her hand and stepped back slightly.

“Now. Ask me what it is you want to know.”

“Why did you run when you saw Gendry Baratheon?”

She arched a brow.  “Baratheon now, is it?  That’s new.”

“Did he lie about being friends with you?  Did he hurt you all those years ago?  If he did I swear by the Old Gods and the New I’ll have his head—“

“No! No, Jon, he never hurt me.  We were friends.  Still are I suppose.  I just, I couldn’t let him see Joana.”

Although he supposed he should have expected her answer Jon felt a twinge of disappointment at her words.  Of all his supposed siblings, Arya had always been the one who seemed to think his bastardy was immaterial, and that his concern about how people would perceive it was overblown.  Even though he was all but legitimized now – having been named by Daenerys as a Targaryen heir to the throne, he would always be a bastard in his mind and it hurt to see Arya go to such lengths to conceal the shame of her natural born child.

“I’m not embarrassed of her,” Arya said defiantly.  She’d always been able to read him, but Jon was still taken aback.  She was glaring at him, as if she was offended that he’d even thought such a thing. 

“Arya, if you were, it’d be ok, I understand—“

“Well I’m not Jon, and if you ever suggest I should be again I’ll put you on your ass.  Joana is the best thing that has happened to me in all my life – she’s the reason I came back to Westeros, the reason why I’m claiming my birthright.”

Her eyes flashed in challenge as if daring him to contradict her.   

“Alright. I believe you.  But why were you so intent to keep her a secret?  You must know at some point she’ll come out into the open.”

“I want the Queen to legitimize her first. I want her to be made a Stark.  Which is why I’ve come to you.”

He wondered if that meant this new, secretive Arya would not have come to him if she didn’t need anything but he shook the thought away and let her continue.

“I almost didn’t come to you like this because I didn’t want to anger her but I wasn’t sure there was any other way to get into your tent without attracting notice.  Some women I know are quite particular about that, but it only seems fair since she’s got you and Gendry that you should be able to be visited by the occasional whore—“

“What?”  He was staring at her utterly flabbergasted, but she just shrugged.

“I mean I know she’s the Mother of Dragons, but its only fair.”

“I’m not lovers with the Queen Arya.”

“Jon I’m not stupid you know, and I’m not a child, its alright.”

“Arya, we’re not—“ he stopped, and buried his face in his hands, realizing what he was about to have to tell her.  Gods help him, but he had to tell her. “We are not lovers the Queen and I.”

“Then why did she give you a Dragon?” Arya asked, her face suspicious.

Jon sighed.  He’d hoped either that she had just known, or that they had had more time before it came to this.  Arya had always been the one of his family who had accepted him the most readily as a sibling.  Now, all these years later, it was almost all they had to bind them together, and he was about to destroy that bond.  Still, she’d find out soon enough if he didn’t tell her he was even called by the Targaryen surname now.

“She gave me Viserion because I am her kin.  She is my Aunt, and I… well I am the son of Rhegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.”

The silence that settled between them was so weighted down with emotion and anticipation that it felt like a force was pressing against his chest.

“Our father—“

“Found me right before my mother died, and raised me as his own to protect me from the wrath of Robert Baratheon.  He saved my life, Arya, and he will always be my father.”

She nodded but didn’t speak. 

“Which is to say, that I don’t think I have the sway with the Queen that you might think I have. We are… civil to one another, but she keeps her own counsel, and there are things that I may ask for that she may not give.”

She nodded again, still not speaking, and still not looking at him.  She went to push her fingers through her hair in frustration – a nervous habit they shared he thought with a pinch in his chest – but, to her annoyance found the golden tresses in place of her own.  She peeled the blond curls off her head in frustration revealing her own chestnut locks braided tight against her head where it had been almost undetectable under the wig.  She began to undo the braids distractedly, and Jon found himself wondering once more what had happened to her during their years apart.  She had, very aptly, disguised herself and gotten access to the tent of one of the most powerful people in the Seven Kingdoms.  And she’d done it with two swords hidden in her skirts.  

“That doesn’t mean I won’t try though Arya.  I would do anything for you, you know that don’t you?” he said reaching out to cup her face in his hand.  He couldn’t stand to be shut out by this solemn, secretive version of the forthright fiery girl he loved so dearly.  He wanted desperately for her to let him in.  She looked up at him, her silver eyes, so like his shining with hope and gratitude.

“I do.  Thank you Jon, truly.”

“She will be here shortly.  She wants to be with us when we take Harrenhal, I think she knows it means something in particular to Gendry.”

Arya nodded again and looked away.  Here too there were secrets she was keeping from him.  Jon knew from his conversations with Gendry that she’d been kept prisoner here, kept in fear every day of dying a horrific death at the hand of the Mountain’s men.  He sighed, knowing that there was too much between them to press her on that now, and continued.

“When she comes I will present you to her, and if you’re more comfortable, after that we may plead Joana’s case.  I will make it clear that I stand with you, and that I would fight and die to defend Joana’s claim and your honor.  And then, maybe after that, maybe you could try to see if you have it in you to trust me once more like you used to.”

Her eyes flew up to his watery with tears he knew she was too stubborn to ever shed.

“I never forgot you, you know.  Even when I was trying very hard to forget.”

He didn’t quite understand the significance of what she was saying but he nodded and pulled her into a tight embrace.  She melted into his chest with a sigh and let him hold her there.  For a few minutes all they did was stand there, letting the embrace communicate the affection and trust neither of them were capable of putting into words just yet.  He knew there was still much that she couldn’t or wouldn’t tell him, but he knew at least, that what trust she could give she’d given him.

For now, that would have to be enough.


	17. Chapter 17

 

 

Jon

 

He made his way through the next few days in a constant state of distraction.  He had had the guards removed from Gendry Baratheon’s tent as soon as he knew Arya was safely out of the camp, but his friend had known something was being kept from him.

“You’ve seen her then.  It’s the only reason why you would release me.  If she was still missing you’d tear my heart out to find her.  So where is she?  Why won’t she see me?”

But he’d had nothing to tell Gendry so instead he’d just mumbled his apologies and gone about his business.  For the next few days every time he heard a man shout, every time he saw men gathered around looking at something his heart constrict thinking that she’d been found and captured.  He didn’t know why the thought made him so anxious, but now that they’d decided they would wait until Daenerys got to the siege camp it seemed to be of the upmost importance that she not be discovered.  He didn’t know the woman his sister had become, but he’d seen what she was capable of at the Twins and he had no doubt that she’d maim or kill to keep Joana’s secret. 

And with the way Gendry Baratheon was going about things the chances of her staying hidden were becoming slimmer by the day.  Although he couldn’t openly countermand Jon and send the men out to search for her, Gendry was finding every excuse to survey the surrounding country.  He’d never been much of a hunter, not having grown up on horseback like so many of the great lords of Westeros, but now it seemed that he was making up for lost time, riding out as often as decorum would allow. 

So on the fourth night when Arya snuck back into his tent, dressed once more as a whore Jon decided that something must be said. 

“I think you need to visit Gendry Baratheon.”

She looked up at him, surprised, her dark brows momentarily vanishing under the blond fringe of her wig.

“He knows he saw you. He’s been distracted with looking for you, and he’s starting to neglect his duties.  I know you want to keep Joana safe, but I think the best way for you to do that is go to him on your own terms. He’ll keep looking for you otherwise.”

She nodded, but didn’t say anything.  She’d been a child when she’d parted ways with Gendry, Jon knew, but there was something about how she was acting towards the Baratheon Bastard that made Jon uneasy.  Did she blame Gendry for what had happened to her since she left his company?  The thought that she laid the blame for her troubles at Gendry Baratheon’s feet rather than his own made him feel irrationally impotent.  She’d been his to protect, his and Robb’s after the death of their father, and they’d both failed.  But instead she held the Bull accountable.  It was as if she’d given up hope in her own kin so long ago that she no longer felt that they owed her anything. 

Finally she sighed and got up, looking him in the eyes once more. 

“You’re right.  I’ll go tonight.”

“Tonight?  You cannot go tonight.” He said, quickly alarmed at the vehemence in his voice.  

“Why not?”

“You cannot let him see you dressed like that.” He said without thinking, his eyes flitting over her, surveying her intentional state of dishabille.  He understood that she was coming dressed as such out of necessity, that the ruse that he was conducting late night trysts with a wayward woman was the easiest way for them to meet, but he didn’t like it one bit.  He’d nearly hit one of his men at arms in the jaw after he’d made a bawdy comment about her during their sparring practice earlier that day.

_“I’ve no idea why you’re up and about so early Milord.  If I were you I’d still be in bed with my face nestled between those perfect creamy tits I saw walking into your tent around midnight.”_

Seven Hells he could’ve killed the man.  His only comfort was knowing that none of these men had any idea who she was.  But for her to go to Gendry Baratheon, to reveal herself to him, dressed as such, alone in his tent at night…

Jon’s hands fisted at the thought.  He didn’t give a damn how close they’d been when she was on the road as a child.  It would not do now. 

Unsurprisingly, her eyes narrowed at his words, but when she spoke he was surprised to hear her voice her agreement.

“You’re right of course.  I’d forgotten about his special relationship with the Queen.  It wouldn’t do for him to be seen with a whore sneaking into his tent after midnight.”  Her words were steady but biting and Jon wondered if she were cross with him, or the situation in general. But he didn’t have time to contemplate the meaning behind her frustration because a moment later she was on her feet, pulling off her wig and striding over to the trunk where he kept his personal effects.

 “I’ll need to borrow trousers and a doublet from you,” she said, throwing open the trunk and riffling through its contents.  “And I’ll need your help unlacing this girdle.”

“What?”  His mouth went dry at her words and he felt an odd flutter in his stomach.  

She quirked an eyebrow at him, “You do know how to unlace a girdle don’t you Jon?”

He narrowed his eyes at her annoyed.

“I was just surprised to hear that someone who could get herself into the Twins, kill the lord, incapacitate his heir, and leave undetected cannot get out of a girdle without assistance.  What do you do when no one’s here to help you?”

“Cut it off.”

He shouldn’t have asked.  

She stood up, holding a pair of trousers and an overcoat in her hand.

“Well?”

He sighed and went to stand behind her.  She hadn’t bothered with the intricate braiding of her own hair tonight, and when she’d thrown off the wig her riot of brown curls had sprung free and were now hanging invitingly down her back.  Carefully, he drew his fingers across her shoulder blades, gathering up the mutinous locks before depositing them lightly to rest on her right shoulder.  It was an innocent enough gesture, but he felt her inhale as his calloused fingers scraped across her spine.  The tenor in the room seemed to change in an instant.  He cleared his throat doing the best to ignore his rising heart rate as he set about the task of untying the series of knots in her girdle lacings.  After a few moments the last of the knots gave way and he hooked a finger into the first few crosses of the lacings pulling them loose as Arya exhaled shakily.  He forced himself to step away from her and busied himself pointedly with fetching her a man’s cloak from across the room.  

She too seemed to shake herself, and with a breathy “don’t look” went about the business of disrobing in earnest.  The soft thud of each garment hitting the packed earth floor seemed to send a jolt straight to his groin and he stood fixedly staring in the other direction mortified at his own perverseness.

_Until two nights ago she thought she was your sister._

“You can turn around now,” her voice sounded stronger again, and he turned to see her dressed in a more than passible imitation of a ruffian squire.  His trousers were clearly too big for her, but she’d rolled them in a decent enough imitation of a young teen attempting to make use of his father’s cast-offs before he hits his growth spurt.  The jacket too, was loose on her, but in this case the looseness helped hide the damning curves of her breasts and hips.  She’d even begun to gather up her hair, twisting it and tucking it so that at a glance it looked as if it were cropped just below the chin.  She wouldn’t stand up to close inspection in the light of day, but for a nighttime stroll across a large camp it’d serve.  Around her waist he saw the same thin blade he’d caught a glimpse of the other night.  Seeing it now, he realized that the quillion and the pummel still bore the intricate carvings that Mikken had put into them all those years ago.

“You managed to hang on to that.  After all this time.”

He didn’t know why but the fact touched him more than he could say.  

“It was taken from me once.  But I got it back.”  

He looked up from the sword he’d been admiring to meet her eyes and saw that they were deadly serious clouded over with dark memories.  Pausing for a second, as if considering, she said quietly.

“It was taken from me by a Lannister guard.  He used it to kill my friend.  When I crossed paths with him again, I used it to kill him in the same way.”

Jon was quiet for a second, knowing that this was as forthcoming as she was likely to get about her past.  Not wanting to push her too far he lowered his voice to a calming, cautious murmur.

“Was that the first man you ever killed?”

A wry smile twisted her mouth.  “The third. No wait—fourth.  The first was an accident.  A stable boy who tried to stop me fleeing the Red Keep on the night they arrested father.”

So she’d killed her first man at eleven.  He shook his head in frustration at the thought of all the things he’d failed to protect her from.

“You’ll never have to kill again.  I promise you.  I will keep you and Joana safe.”

She smiled another small smile, as if the promise of safety was something too foreign too entertain seriously and nodded.

“We’ll see what the Queen says.  But for now I should be going before we lose the cover of darkness.”

He’d almost forgotten, momentarily, that she had been preparing to walk over to Gendry Baratheon’s tent before the sword had distracted their attention.  Fleetingly, he wished he hadn’t said anything, that she had nowhere else to be that night than with him, recounting the years she’d lost no matter how hard it was for him to take.  But tonight was not that night, and so he straightened, and cleared his throat once more.

“Its four tents back.  The one with the Baratheon banners.  There should be no guards about but if there are come back at once and I’ll escort you.”

She nodded, blowing out a deep breath as if steeling herself for what was about to transpire.  

“Right.  I’ll be back before dawn.  Don’t bother to wait up, I’ll wake you when I return.”

And then with a quick squeeze of his hand, she stepped away from him and went out into the night, leaving Jon standing there wondering why the thought of her slipping into Gendry Baratheon’s tent made him feel as if he’d been punched in the gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will include significant Gendry/Arya drama I promise! Although I stand by my earlier statements urging all steadfast shippers not to be too wedded to one version of how they think things will unfold. Most of the fun for writing this particular fic for me has been in developing Arya as a complex female character with lots of different things pulling her in different directions, so I hope you all are down for the ride! Thanks everyone for their terrific comments, I truly do love hearing from you all!


	18. Chapter 18

Arya

 

She needed a moment to steady herself.  She needed her wits about her before she could meet with Gendry Waters for the first time in years.  She needed to be calm and collected, needed to be able to censor and guard her thoughts.  

But right now she was a wreck.

She was losing her resolve with every second she spent with Jon.  She hadn’t even realized how much of her life she’d wanted to unload on someone, how burdened she was by the contents of her own mind, until Jon and his dark surliness had come back into her life.  They both had that, in a way, him and Gendry, that ability to be there without pushing without demanding, just sitting there looking stupid until she blurted out whatever secrets she was keeping from them.

It was ironic – she’d been trained to resist the most wretched forms of interrogation and yet silent surliness was her undoing. 

But it was more than that.  Talking about her past wasn’t the reason her heart was racing.  Telling him about getting Needle back hadn’t caused her breath to catch in her throat, hadn’t made a shiver of pleasure run down her spine. 

No the scrape of calloused fingers against the sensitive skin of her back had done that.  The nearness of _him_ had done that.

The thought made her want to weep, as if she was little more than the child who had bid him farewell all those years ago.

_It’s just the prospect of meeting up with Gendry again_ , she reasoned with herself. _You’ve been acting like you don’t care, like it doesn’t matter_.

But she did care.  And it did matter.  A part of her had broken on the day that she’d heard Gendry and Daenerys Targaryen had become lovers.  She had never thought that she would be the only one, but for some reason, some stupid childish reason, she’d thought she would at least be a special one.  That all the rest of them would blend together as faceless buxom tavern wenches and she would stick out in his mind as something special.

_Stupid.  He doesn’t even remember you’ve been together.  You saw to that._

At the time it had been all she could do.  She hadn’t been ready to be Arya Stark again yet, not with Robb, Bran, Rickon, and her parents gone.  Not with Sansa lost to the world, somewhere on the run with the Imp or Petyr Baelish or some such person.  Not with Jon killed at the hands of his own Black Brothers.  She hadn’t been ready to face the tragedy of being a Stark then, and so she’d let him go.

And he’d moved on, if he’d ever loved her at all.  She’d had a moment, where hope had broken through the façade of No One, and she’d felt a flicker of joy as he cried out for her in the heat of their love making, even though she was wearing the face of another. She’d felt loved. She'd felt special. 

But that was gone now.  Gendry was in love with the Dragon Queen.  Everyone said so, from the highest lord to the lowest foot soldier. They spoke of the unlikely love between a Targaryen Queen and her baseborn Baratheon lover.

_Stop feeling sorry for yourself._ She chastised herself.  _He’s your friend and he deserves to know you’re not dead, even if you’re too pathetic to pull it together_.

Still, she wished Jon had let her go dressed as a bloody fucking girl.  

Before any time had passed at all, she was there – standing before the stag banners as they swayed lightly in the night’s breeze.  It was odd, that Gendry had taken up the banners of the father who’d impregnated his mother and never looked back.  She knew her own father had fathered a bastard, but still, how could you respect a man who did it with such indifference?

_Except father didn’t father a bastard.  He just said he did.  Jon’s not your brother._

It was still taking some time to set in. 

Taking a deep breath, and willing herself through the urge to stall some more, she reached for the flap of the tent and slipped inside before she could let herself reconsider.

Across the tent, Gendry, who had been laying down in his pallet, sat up with a start, letting the coverings fall down around his waist.

He was shirtless.  Gods, why did he have to be shirtless?

Stupidly, almost reflexively, she reached up a hand and shook out her hair, so that it fell down her back.  No doubt he recognized her better with her hair in a faux bob, but if she was going to do this dressed like a squire she’d at least have one testament to the fact that she’d grown since he last saw her.

“Arya.” Her name sounded like a prayer as it left his lips.

“Jon says you’ve been looking for me.”

“Why did you run?  When I saw you and the other woman why did you run?  Why are you hiding from me?”

She really should have had an answer prepared for this, but she groped lamely though her mind for something that might pass muster.

“I didn’t want to reveal who I was.  I was hoping that whoever was here would give me leave to stay if I carried Jon’s sword, but that they wouldn’t ask questions.  I didn’t want word getting back to Daenerys until Jon came back.”

“And you thought I would tell her?”

“You’ve been telling her quite a lot of things recently from what I hear.”

He glowered at her and she glowered right back.  She’d decided that the easiest way to get through this was to be angry, and with Gendry it had always been oh so easy to be angry.

He rose from the bed and came towards her, his jaw set, his thick black brows furrowed over his deep blue eyes.  It was easy to forget how much he towered over her, but with him this close it was almost overwhelming.  She fought the urge to take a step back.

“Why shouldn’t it get back to Daenerys?  She’s the Queen, Arya it isn’t wrong if she knows you’re here.”

“She’s not _my_ Queen.”

“Oh really, and who is then?”

“No one.  I don’t have a queen.  I don’t _need_ a queen. Or a king. And there was a time when you didn’t either.”

“Times change.”

“I see that, stupid.”

It just slipped out, like she was a child again, arguing with him about where to make camp for the night.

“She’s Jon’s Queen.”

“Do I look like Jon?”

“More than you could ever know.”

“I’ll be sure to be more diligent about trimming my beard then.”

He made and exasperated noise in the back of his throat and cupped his big warm hands around her face.  Her heart beat accelerated involuntarily.

“Gods Arya have you always been so stubborn?  Daenerys is not your enemy.”

Her heart felt like a dead weight in her chest.  Whatever she’d wanted to hear the first time Gendry touched her again after their years apart, an endorsement of Daenerys Targaryen was not it.

“And Gods _Gendry_ have you always been so inclined to think with your cock?  Just because the Dragon Queen shines favor on you doesn’t mean she’ll give me what I want.”

“Think with my cock?" he sputtered angrily, "You think I think with my cock?  No Arya, if I thought with my cock I would’ve done this the second you showed up in my tent.”

And then he kissed her.  It was a hard, angry kiss at first, still rife with the fight they’d just been having.  But after a moment it softened into something else.  Something far more potent.  She stood on her toes to get closer to him and he growled at her showing of enthusiasm, pulling her body flush against his.  Her hands ran up the smooth muscled planes of his chest, tangling in the smattering of hair there before coming to rest around his neck.  It still felt as if she couldn’t get close enough to his mouth, and he must have sensed something, because in one swift movement his arms came down and scooped her legs up so that she was straddling her waist while he held her against him, his two large hands kneading her ass provocatively as they kissed.

He rolled his hips, pressing into her while his tongue mimicked the motion.  At the movement she felt herself being wrenched from her intoxicated delight.  It had felt good, Gods it had felt so good, but it was more than that.  It had felt _practiced_. Expert. The move of a seasoned lover used to wrapping the legs of a smaller woman around his waist and teasing her until she comes undone.  Gone was the shy but earnest greenboy who she’d lain with in Braavos.  He was gone, and she didn’t even know how to begin to look for him.

He felt her hesitation and broke the kiss, looking into her face as he panted to catch his breath.  She couldn’t even look at him, she was so steeped in her own sense of loss.  

“What is it?  What’s wrong?”

She unwrapped her legs from around him and stepped back, still refusing to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry.  That shouldn’t have happened.”

“Yes it should have.  It should’ve happened years ago!  I’ve thought about it so many times, it almost feels like it did.”

Her eyes widened at his confession, at the thought that he might remember after all, in spite of the dram she’d given him, that he might realize what she’d hidden.

“The Queen—“

“Would you forget about Daenerys for a second? Gods Arry I’m talking about us!”

“I cannot forget about her Gendry.  Not even for a second.  And neither can you.  Don’t forget that. I couldn't bare it if something happened to you because you did.”

And before he could say another word, before her weakness could get the better of her, she left the tent, and fled into the night.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know its short. But I was trying to get a lot of emotions through in this one and I ended up messing around with it quite a bit before I felt it hit all the points I wanted it to hit. I'm also really trying not to take the easy way out and make any of our favorite protagonists jerks for the purposes of making the story easier to write. Let me know what you think, and also please prepare for things to get even messier when Dany shows up...


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry sorry sorry! My computer broke so I lost a huge portion of what I'd written. This is a long chapter though so hopefully that kind of makes up for the delay. Let me know what you think!

Arya

 

She’d approached the camp cautiously as soon as she saw the black dragon circling overhead.  At first she meant only to go to Jon’s tent, sure that it would be a bad idea to get too close to where the Queen was, but curiosity gnawed at her until she gave in and made her way to a hillside overlooking the field where Drogon had just landed.  The Queen’s silvery hair shone out like a beacon against the black beasts hide.  The whole image was other-worldly, and watching Arya could appreciate how the people were falling to their knees to swear fealty to Daenerys – after years of Robert Baratheon’s lechery, Joffrey’s sadism and Tommen’s weakness, she looked like the picture of a ruler who could elevate the monarchy over its recent triviality. 

She was awe-inspiring, which made Arya hate her all the more when, after all the other attendants had left them, she saw Daenerys pull Gendry in for a long, deep kiss.  Arya watched from her place in the trees as his arms came around her, until she felt her stomach twist with jealousy and she forced herself to walk away.  She’d known they were together – still seeing him cradle another woman in his arms only hours after he held her… well it didn’t matter.

She’d known what she needed to do from the start – she needed to convince Daenerys that she was capable, that she was respectable, and that she could rule the North well enough on her own to be left the hell alone.  That was the only way she could be sure to control Joana’s future – the only way she could protect her from the interference – well-meant or otherwise – of people who would make her too weak to survive.

Jon had told her the Queen was granting her an audience at noon, and after glancing up at the sky she broke into a run, weaving her way across camp.  She was still dressed as a squire, and with the number of men and the excitement of the Queen visiting no one paid her or the satchel she held over her shoulder any mind.  The road had been rough, but she and Elia had planned for this, and she had managed to get herself one decent dress. So she wasted no time as she tore into Jon’s empty tent, shaking the garment out and laying it out across his’s abandoned pallet.

An hour to make herself presentable to the most beautiful woman in the world.  Seven Hells. In the center of the tent a newly poured bath sat, steaming up luxuriously.  It had been sweet of him to give her that. Without a moment’s delay, she stripped off her men’s clothing, ripping away the bandages binding her breasts with satisfaction.  Although she’d stopped nursing a few months earlier, and the rest of her body had reverted to its lythe pre-baby form, her chest had remained annoyingly large, which made the binding more necessary, and painful, than ever.  She washed herself in the tub quickly, glad for the lavender oil Elia had insisted she bring with her.

_“You’re going to meet the Queen.  You should smell like power and luxury not horses and war.”_

She would take help from wherever it could be found for today’s meeting.  She’d been skeptical about the lavender oil, but she felt herself draw strength from the luxurious scent as it began to mix with the steam and swirl around the tent.  This was just another face she had to don to get her baby home, and with that in mind she said a silent prayer to the gods and forced herself out of the bath.  She twisted her hair up in an intricate set of plats, taking care for the first time in months and trying to remember the nimble patterns that her mother’s fingers had woven so effortlessly.  After a few minutes she was glanced back at her reflection in the cooling bath and nodded with satisfaction, before turning a critical eye on the dress she’d purchased.

It was a deep blue dress, cut to her measurements exactly. The tailoring allowed bodice to act almost as a corset, giving the dress a regal structure, an effect which was enhanced by the silver fox fur which lined the cuffs and hem and matched her eyes to perfection.  The front was cut low allowing for a generous but respectable view of her breasts.

Around her waist she hung a sliver chain – one of the precious few things she’d taken with her from her days in Dorne.  Ellaria had given it to her, not long after Joana was born, as a delivery gift.

_“All women deserve a reward for bringing life into this world,”_ she had decreed, handing Arya the light chain, and ignoring her protests.  It was worth more than the rest of her possessions combined, and she was sure Ellaria had given it to her to insure that she and Joana never went hungry is she decided to leave on a moment’s notice.  Still, she hadn’t parted with it, and now, looking down at herself, she was more grateful for it than she could say.

She looked like a true lady of Winterfell, for the first time in over a decade.  But tonight she needed to be more than that, just in case the audience with the queen truly when awry. And so, with a sigh, she hitched her skirts up and propped her leg up onto the bed, and began strapping Needle and a throwing knife into her garter.  Which, of course, is what she was doing when Jon came charging into the tent.

 

Jon

 

For a moment he froze, positive he’d walked into the wrong tent and mortified by his intrusion.  The whole tent smelled like something… some flower he couldn’t place but that managed to exude a sense of womanly serenity throughout the roughly constructed war tent.  A woman… a beautiful woman was standing in front of the pallet bed her skirts hitched up as she fixed a garter around her porcelain white thigh…

“Beg pardon, ma’am—“ he began and then stopped, his brain finally catching up with his eyes.  This was his tent. That had been his bath.  And as she turned arching a sardonic brow at him he realized that the woman he’d been mortified about interrupting was Arya.  She turned back towards him, letting her skirts fall but not fast enough to keep him from catching a glimpse of something steeling and sharp strapped to the inside of her leg. 

She was breathtaking – but it was more than that.  She’d been taking his breath away more often than he cared to think about these days.  This look, with her hair confined in respectable plats instead of hanging lose in a riot of curls, with her body clothed in a dress of fine wools and firs and bedecked with jewelry, made her look… well, regal.  She looked utterly beyond reproach, impossibly far from a girl who’d scrounged her way across the Riverlands dressed as a boy in the company of bastards and criminals bound for the Wall.  Impossibly far from the Sand Snake training assassin he knew her to be. And utterly different than the battle goddess who’d killed Jaime Lannister and sent Aegon Targaryen on a jealous lust filled search of the countryside.

Was that what she was aiming to do?  He’d never found himself so incapable of reading her, and for the hundredth time since they’d been reunited he was reminded of the gulf that still existed between them.

“Is it alright?” she asked, the slight quiver in her voice breaking the façade that had rendered him speechless.

“Yes.” He said gruffly, then, realizing how piss poor an answer that was he added, “its perfect.  We should go.”

He held out his arm and she took it, padding silently through the snow as he guided her to the Queen’s tent.  Around them men stopped and gaped at her, this Northern Princess who’d emerged unannounced from the heart of their camp, but she kept her gaze ahead, focused on the Queen’s tent.

Inside, Daenerys sat on a raised platform, with Gendry and the other leaders of the camp standing below the dais.  Jon saw the Baratheon lord’s eyes widen at the sight of her, but he said nothing. The look on his face wasn’t aggressive – in fact it looked more puzzled than anything, as if he were reaching for a thought that wouldn’t quite take shape. He glanced away, looking at the ground, his face still strained in thought.  Jon glanced at Arya, looking for some clue from her that would explain their friend’s odd behavior, but her eyes were fixed pointedly on the Queen.

“Your Grace,” she said bending in a perfect curtesy that he would have sworn her incapable of doing an hour ago. 

“You are… not what I expected.” Daenerys voice said, light with surprise.  “The way Gendry and Jon described you I expected a wayward tomboy.”

“I still have my moments, your grace.”

“Indeed,” she said, her eyes combing over Arya.  “What is it you want, Arya of House Stark?”

“Simply to return to my home your Grace.”

“Alone?”

Jon’s eyes widened slightly as a wave of worry washed over him.  Had someone told Daenerys about Joana?  Arya had begged him to keep it from her… she’d avoided Gendry Baratheon for days and slept in the woods to keep her secret, but if Dani knew..

“With my travel companion, Your Grace.” Arya said smoothly.

“Is she your lover?”

Gendry coughed in surprise but Arya’s eyes merely glinted in amusement.

“No.  She is my ward.”

Daenerys nodded, but kept a brow arched.

“Winterfell is occupied at the moment by Ramsay Bolton.  Are you aware of that?”

“I am.”

“And how do you plan of returning home if Ramsay Bolton reigns as Lord there?”

“By killing Ramsay Bolton.”

“By yourself?” 

“If need be,” Arya said, a hint of steel making its way into her tone.  “I was hoping Jon might lend me some assistance, once he finds the time.”

Though the barb was not aimed at him, he felt it acutely.  He’d been raised at Winterfell, told he was a son of the late Ned Stark.  It was ridiculous that Dany would imply that Arya would have to launch an assault on Winterfell alone – after what the Boltons had done to their family.

“Jon may assist… but who would he be assisting?  You have no men.”

“I’ve not returned to the North as of yet.”

“You can’t let vows of fealty low fallow for years and expect men to remember them with Winter fast approaching.”

“You can if they’re Northern men.”

Daenerys grinned, looking for the first time, truly amused.

“I’ve heard of this Northern pride.  Its admirable, but foolhearty to rely on such a thing.”

When Arya didn’t say anything, Daenerys sighed and then smiled, although her smile seemed less bright than Jon knew it to be.

“We will, of course, support your claim.  I know you are a great friend of the Lord Baratheon, and that Jon viewed Ned Stark as a father.”

It was the understatement of the century – he had believed, with all his heart that Ned Stark had been his father, up until the moment he’d bonded with Viserion, but he let it do as Dany cleared her throat.  She shot him a brief, almost apologetic look that set him on edge before pressing on.

“As soon as I heard of your survival, I planned to establish you as the heir to Winterfell.  However, it is what I would ask of you is more than merely pledging your allegiance to me as my Warden of the North.  What I would like, what our Kingdom needs, is healing.  Healing through alliances are important yes, but healing through unions are more important still.”

Gendry’s eyes shot up from the floor to stare at Daenerys at the same time that Jon felt his own brow furrow in dread.  What the hell was Dany talking about.

“It is possible,” she said her voice wavering slightly, “that the gods will not again allow me to bare a child.  It has been some years since I fell pregnant.”

The faint flush on Dany’s neck was the only show that she was discussing anything more trying than the weather. Jon had heard rumors of course, and she hadn’t become pregnant in the months he’d seen her sharing a bed with Gendry, but to hear her say it so openly was another thing entirely.

“If I were to die without an heir, the throne would pass to my nephews and their children.  I do not like the idea of arranging marriages, and yet given the state of the Noble houses of Westeros it seems necessary to put marriage on the bargaining table.  Let me be blunt.  There is no Tyrell daughter left living, the Sandsnakes of Dorne are not of noble blood.  The heir to the Eyrie is a weak boy, the heir to the Riverlands is your Uncle Edmure.  The only female Lannister left is Cersei, who I plan on executing as soon as I can convene the counsel, and Yara Greyjoy has promised to kill any husband I sent her way.  As much as it displeases me to bargain in these terms, unmarried daughters of High Houses are simply too few and far between for me to assist you without a marriage alliance.”

“Your Grace…” Arya began, shaking her head slightly as Jon’s mind worked furiously. Was Dany implying…

“You don’t have to answer right away!” Daenerys interjected, clearly uncomfortable with the ultimatum she was laying down.  “I expected you to be hesitant.  Gendry and Jon have told me enough about you that I didn’t expect you to jump for joy, even if I did just offer you the chance to have your children sit on the Iron Throne.  I appreciate that, it’s the attitude the mother of our future Kings should have.” She said, smiling encouragingly at Arya, who seemed frozen. 

“Don’t decide until after you’ve met Aegon.  I invited him to come here to meet you and to help with the siege. I’d ask you not to make a decision until after you’ve gotten to know him, he can be hard to handle at times but his heart is in the right place and he could use a strong woman like you.”

Arya’s eyes darted to his full of fear and he knew.  Aegon had seen her with Joana.  He would expose her the moment he got there.    He knew from the look in her eyes that she wouldn’t let that happen – she’d disappear into the night before he got within a hundred miles of the camp.  And once she left, there’s no telling how long she’d be gone again.  He might lose her again, for good this time.  He wouldn’t let that happen – and at that thought crowding out all other rational thinking he found himself suddenly speaking out.

“Don’t – don’t summon Aegon.”

Dany’s eyes widened questioningly, as Arya turned to look at him with a pleading look in her eyes.

“what I mean to say is…” he muttered, his face burning crimson and his heart beating erratically in his chest as his mind began to piece together a ridiculous, stupid, half-baked plan, “… there’s no need to summon Aegon, because I- I would like to offer Arya _my_ hand. If- if she’ll have me.”

Dany raised her eyebrows, and Gendry was looking at him as if he’d never really seen him before.  But Jon was ignoring them both, and instead staring directly into Arya’s eyes willing her to understand what he was doing.

“There is one condition however,” he said, speaking the words directly to her even as he glanced back up at Dany, “I am a follower of the Old Gods.  So, I believe, is Arya.  Therefore I would ask that our arrangement remain a betrothal until we are able to marry in front of the Weirwood at Winterfell.”

She’d get what she wanted then, before having to commit to him. Then no matter what happened next, the North would be available for her and Joana.

“I didn’t mean to say that it has to be you—“ Dany began tentatively but Arya cut her off, her hand coming up to grasp his.

“I accept.”  

 


End file.
